​

A Host of Embarrassing Interludes
(With my sincere apologies to William Wordsworth)

​

He bumbles loudly like a bee
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
Then all at once he’s all at sea,
A host of embarrassing interludes;
In the House, beneath the trees,
Flipping and flopping in the breeze.

​

Anxious he was to quote some rhyme,
A Kipling poem on Mandalay,
He stretched his voice on one sweet line,
Ambassador forced to close the play:
Ten thousand saw it I’ll be bound,
Rolling their eyes without a sound.

​

His next appointment gaffe he kept
For Party Conference after dusk.
Libyan bodies, we just wept.
Many asked: ‘Is Boris with us?’
We gazed – and gazed – but little thought
What ministerial misery this man has brought.

​

His latest act of clown-like play,
Some vacant words and woeful brief,
Our citizen, the price may pay
Whilst the world looks on in disbelief.
Now once again he’s all at sea,
A host of embarrassing interludes.

More to follow…

©Keith Murphy

​

Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas
(With my apologies to Major Henry Livingston, Jr.)

​

‘Twas the night before Brexit, and nothing was signed,
Not a talk was occurring, no one resigned;
Parliament was hung, unable to act,
Incompetence ruled, but no one was sacked.
The leavers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of no deal danc’d in their heads.
And Johnson of Uxbridge and Mogg in his spats
Had hung up their brains for a long winter’s nap —
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below;
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a crowd of millions chanting; ‘Leave – No fear!’
With support of these millions, it had to done,
Negotiate a Remain before the morning did come.
I rang up my colleagues and opponents as well,
But no response from the Leavers to the telephone bell.
So the ‘will of the people’ had now changed its tune,
A definite key change from that vote off in June.
No Leaver did stir, ‘no deal’ dreams held them trapped,
And fortunately populace had seen through this crap.
So my colleagues, (cross party), took to the sky
And buoyed up by consensus, to Brussels did fly.
So up to the house-tops us Remainers we flew,
To slay right wing Tories and Ukippers too:
And then in a twinkling, we heard on the wire
That Europe would take us, back with desire.
As we drew into Brussels, a treaty we found,
Just signed on the line, retaining our pound.
So the deed had been done and disaster averted,
Big Ben was struck to awake the converted.
Remainers awoke to relief the next day
And opened their present from Santa’s big sleigh.
Now a mystery surrounds the Leavers reaction,
I’ll tell you all with no government redaction.
They awoke from their slumbers, all cheerful and bright
And responded to news by saying it’s right.
But a man with a beard and a pipe in his teeth,
Last night dropped his dust on sleepers beneath.
He had a broad face, and a little round belly
That shook when he laugh’d, like a bowl full of jelly:
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laugh’d when I saw him in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, when he went to his work,
He kill’d all the arguing; then turn’d with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprung to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle:
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove in the sky —
Happy Christmas to all, and to Brexit goodbye.

©Keith Murphy

 

A Runny Nose
(With my sincere apologies to Robert Burns)

​

O my Brexit’s like a runny nose,
That’s never over soon:
O my Brexit’s like a tragedy,
That’s never played in tune.

​

Prepare to leave; we’ll go no less,
So not in luve am I;
And I won’t luve thee Brexit dear,
‘Cos a’ the planes won’t fly.

​

‘Cos a’ the planes won’t fly, my dear,
And us snowflakes melt wi’ Sun;
And I won’t luve thee Brexit dear,
With no plans o’ future done.

​

So deal-thy-deal, my Brexit Luve!
And tax-free-dodge, a while!
But I will come again, my Luve,
Wi’ thy Leavers who will resile!

©Keith Murphy

​

Brexit Blues or Lock All The Locks
(With sincere apologies to WH Auden)

​

Lock all the locks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the plebs from larking with a slide trombone.
Silence the critics and with forkéd tongue
Spit out the lies, let the Brexit come.

​

Let aeroplanes circle, remoaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky that the EU’s truly Dead,
All around the poop decks, find the Brexit motley crew,
Let the tragic populous wear, the red white and blue.

​

Europe was our North, our South, our East and West
Sometimes quite wrong, but always best
To talk, to argue, to agree what’s wrong,
I want no fight with neighbouring states: I want one song.

​

The stars are not wanted now, put out every one;
Pack up the flag, its workaday job is done;
Poor made poorer, and rich did what you could?
But nothing now can ever, come to any good.

©Keith Murphy

​

Bad Lady May Bothers Me
(With sincere apologies to AA Milne)

​

Lady May had majority with great big knobs on.
She went amongst dissenters and bipped them on the head.
On Wednesday and on Saturday, but mostly on the latter day,
She pulled out all her policies and this is what she said.

“Strong and Stable” (ting-ling)
“Strong and Stable” (rat tat!)
“Strong and Stable, May’s able –
Take that, and that, and that!”

​

Lady May had a battle bus with great big signs on;
‘Teresa May for Britain’ – which made her very proud.
On Tuesday and on Friday, just to make the street look tidy,
She’d collect the Tory faithful and call them random crowd.

“Brexit means Brexit (yaaaah bo!)
Brexit means Brexit (haaaa haaaa!)
Strong and Stable, May’s able –
Truly paint me Tory Blue.”

​

Lady May arose one morning, could find no majority;
She stumbled into power needing second party help.
She’d done a hundred U-turns when the Irish party saved her,
And the thousand million reasons made journos yelp and yelp!

“You are Lady May? Indeed!
You are Lady May? Pooh Pooh!
Strong and Stable May’s able?
– For the many or just the few?”

​

Lady May went to Europe and found a lot of problems.
They pulled her out and dried her out and blipped her on the head.
They took her by her fancy shoes and hurled her into ditches
And they pushed her hard on citizens rights and this is what they said:

“Below Expectations – try more,
Below Expectations – what’ll you pay;
Strong and Stable May’s able? –
In judgement over this, we demand ECJ”

​

Lady May struggled home again and chatted with big beast friends.
Lady May grabbed her manifesto and threw it on the fire.
She left big beasts fighting over who should get the spurs on
And goes around the village now as Teresa May (expired).

“I am Lady May? Oh No!
I am Lady May? Who’s she?
I have’t got any title, just ex PM;
Plain Mrs. Teresa May (MP.)”

©Keith Murphy

​

Brexitleadias
(With my sincere apologies to Percy Bysshe Shelley)

​

I am that traveller from an antique land,
Who says – “Our vast and cheerless land alone
Stands at present…. Near us, close at hand,
Half sunk, a shattered nightmare lies, whose clowns
With lying lips, and shoes of cold command,
Waltzed off to the future. Well our hearts were shred.
We just survive, camped on these lifeless Isles.

The leavers mocked them, and remainers bled;
And on the pedestal, these words appear;
My name is Brexitleadias, Bringer of Things.
Look at no work, ye Mighty and despair!
We should have remained. Bound to decay,
Such a colossal wreck, jumping to dare
The cliff, its sheer edge, redemption now far away”

©Keith Murphy

​

Brexitwocky
(With sincere apologies to Lewis Carroll)

​

‘Twas brillig and all slithy toads
Did hard and softly ply their line;
All flimsy were the treasure troves,
For EU cheque we need to sign.

“Beware the Brexitwock my son!
The jaws that bite the eye that rocks!
Beware the dugdug trench, and shun
The furious blackmailed Fox!”

​

With position papers down our pants:
To protect from pain that Barnier brought –
So rested we by the Trumptrump rants,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in flexithought we stood,
The Brexitwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling as remainers knew it would
And brusselled as it came!

​

Un, Deux! Un, Deux! And SAS,
The Davis blade went snicker-snack!
Was it very dead, he didn’t know,
He went U-Turning his way back.

“And hast thou slain the Brexitwock?”
Media, May and populous calloohs!
“Over cliff edge with its ticking clock,
My ode to joy, no border knows.”

​

‘Twas brillig and all slithy toads
Did hard and softly ply their line;
Still flimsy were the treasure troves,
For EU cheque we have to sign.

©Keith Murphy

​

Consensus in Referendum Land
(With sincere apologies to William Blake)

​

And did my cross, in private booth,
Bring me what England is denied:
And were there truly men of good,
On EUs referendum sides?
And did the count of votes unseen,
Bring forth upon us fiscal ill?
And was our Cameron blighted here,
Because of Leavers clarion call?

​

Bring me my vote of in or out;
Bring me my paper of despair:
Bring me my fear, O woe untold!
Bring me a thread of Johnson’s hair!
I’ll have to cease from mental fight,
I’ll let my sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built consensus,
In England’s Referendum Land.

©Keith Murphy

​

Hotel On The Cliff Edge
(With sincere apologies to The Eagles 1976)

​

With a dark referendum, many said was unfair.
Warm smell of deception, rising up through the air.
Up ahead in the distance, I saw the self righteous right.
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim,
I had a Brexit to fight.

There we stand in the doorway,
We have a big missing bell,
And I was thinking to myself,
“This sure ain’t heaven, it’s not going well”.
Then we joined up together, and we know we can say,
With our voices from the Brexit door
We must be heard to say…

​

Welcome to the Hotel on the cliff edge.
Such a lonely place, (Such a lonely place),
Such a double face.
Loads of doom at the Hotel on the cliff edge
You got it all to fear, (You got it all to fear)
You can’t leave right here.

​

Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door.
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before.
Far from the cliff edge,
Europe much relieved,
We should hang-out all the time we like,
And we should never leave.

©Keith Murphy

​

How Can I Leave Thee? (Sonnet for Article 50)
(With sincere apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning)

​

How can I leave thee? Let me count the ways.
I’ll leave thee as I believe I have the right
To batter and breach all doubters in plain sight.
I’ll end EU trading with indecent haste.
I’ll leave thee as every Leaver brays,
‘Heed the shining democratic light’.
I’ll lead thee weakly, let others worry what’s right.
I’ll lead thee gullibly, so no challenge raise.
I’ll lead thee to a cliff edge to be obtuse,
Ignoring briefs, and with my experts gagged.
I’ll lead after my election I seemed to lose.
With no true mates, I’ll leave thee not a mood lift,
Union, nor smiles for rest of life; and, as it’ll prove,
I shall but leave thee worse and cast adrift.

©Keith Murphy

​

If, Brexitstyle
(With sincere apologies to Rudyard Kipling)

​

If you are blaming others and all about you
Are doing similar, and even worse than you,
If you must rush to doubt EU’s true,
And make no allowance for doubting too;
If you can shout and not be into hearing,
Or need to lie abroad, when facts don’t chime,
Or let your love give way to jeering,
And yet still look good, you commit no crime:

​

If you think team – and make your team your master;
If you can gain – and not let others do the same;
If you can meet Remainer and Abstainer
And treat these two opponents with just one aim:
If you can’t bear to hear your truth not spoken,
And discounted as a falsehood claim,
Or watch your shores, your red boundaries broken,
And ban all others and call them utterly lame:

​

If you can make one cheap and cheerful innings
And risk it all on one lying referendum,
And win and claim democratic beginnings
But ne’re do show a Brexit Impact addendum:
If you can play your part with every nerve and sinew
Strained, to prove that right, is really wrong,
And so hold on when there is nothing for you
Except the Bill which says to all: ‘I’m strong!’

​

If you can cut your suit in deeper blue,
Or talk in rings – or lose the common ground
With old old foes so they desert you,
If you can’t count the value of your falling pound;
If you can fill the angry meeting minute
With sixty seconds worth of useless fun,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And –which is more – you’ll be a Brexiteer, my son!

©Keith Murphy

​

Is Boris All Done?
(With sincere apologies to John Betjeman and Miss J. Hunter Dunn)

​

Is Boris all done, Is Boris all done?
‘Bring up the bodies in Libyan sun.’
With disastrous rhetoric just after tea,
The Manchester conference – you against me!

​

Don’t love him, please hate him, oh! satire’s delight,
The tact of some barbed wire, the grace of a fight.
With Kipling and Limericks, armed to the teeth.
We’re basking in ridicule, it’s beyond our belief.

​

Please sack him, don’t back him, please kick him away,
We can not predict what next he might say.
This joker’s from Eton, and so he does claim
A privileged background that he fights to retain.

​

By plans ‘not adopted’ he’s proposing to leave,
The Tories can’t sack him, the party is peeved.
This shock-headed creature, all blazer and tie,
And now I’m enraged by Boris the Lie.

©Keith Murphy

​

Not Campaigning but Lying
(With my apologies to Stevie Smith and the drowned man)

​

Everybody heard them, the Leave gang,
On June twenty four morning:
We were much further out than you thought
And not campaigning but lying.

Such crap, they always were barking
And their bus was read.
There was no Brexit gold for them to go Europe way
They said.

Oh, go go go, with a deal or without!
(The sea at their cliff edge foaming)
They were much too far out all their lives
And not campaigning but lying.

©Keith Murphy

 

May Wishes for the Brexit Impact Documents
(With my sincere apologies to WB Yeates)

​

Hid I the experts embroidered thoughts,
Enwrought with damming and literal truth,
The blue and the dim have the dark thoughts
Of spy and lie and the half truth,
I have spread my tosh under your feet:
But I, wanting more, will hide these reams;
I will spread no reams under your feet;
Tread softly, ‘cos you won’t read my reams.

©Keith Murphy

​

O Brexit, Brexit won’t you marry me?
 

O Brexit, Brexit, won’t you marry me
When your big bad deal is done?
On no sweet maid I cannot marry you
For Repeal Bill needs to be run.
So up she went to her grandfather’s chest
And she got him a Bill of the very, very best
And Brexit put it on.

​

O Brexit, Brexit, won’t you marry me
When your big bad deal is done?
On no sweet maid I cannot marry you
For Ireland’s split needs to come.
So up she went to her grandfather’s chest
And she got him a split of the very, very best
And Brexit put it on.

​

O Brexit, Brexit, won’t you marry me
When your big bad deal is done?
On no sweet maid I cannot marry you
For ex-pats rights should be won.
So up she went to her grandfather’s chest
And she got him some rights of the very, very best
And Brexit put them on.

​

O Brexit, Brexit, won’t you marry me
When your big bad deal is done?
On no sweet maid I cannot marry you
No trade talks have yet begun.
So up she went to her grandfather’s chest
And she got him some talks of the very, very best
And Brexit put them on.

​

O Brexit, Brexit, won’t you marry me
When your big bad deal is done?
On no sweet maid I cannot marry you
With no pickers for our apple, pear and plum.
So up she went to her grandfather’s chest
And she got him some pickers of the very, very best
And Brexit took them on.

​

O Brexit, Brexit, won’t you marry me
When your big bad deal is done?
On no sweet maid I cannot marry you
For I will get grief from The Sun.
So up she went to her grandfather’s chest
And she got him some grief of the very, very best
And Brexit was stuck dumb.

​

O Brexit, Brexit, don’t you marry me
With your lies and race all run.
You’ve said you piece, now please release
Us a future for our young.

©Keith Murphy

​

Plucky Brit
(With sincere apologies to William Blake and the Tyger)

​

Plucky Brit, thinks he’s right
In the referendum fight;
What coming mortal hand or eye,
Has to claim thy tearful legacy?

​

In what torrential fall of lies,
Did Brits lap up ‘facts’ like pies?
Roaring like lions with dragon’s fire,
What did back emotion’s gyre?

​

And what did Brits pull apart?
Peace created at Europe’s heart.
And when Brits solo move their feet,
All trade deals seem quite complete.

​

What’s the clamour? Why the pain,
Short term loss for long term gain!
Plucky Brits have yet to grasp,
Pound goes down, no jobs will last!

​

When the binge fuelled headache clears,
And logic overcomes emotion’s tears:
Our Plucky Brit will also see,
He who made Europe, also made thee.

​

Plucky Brit, thinks he’s right
In the referendum fight;
What coming mortal hand or eye,
Has to claim thy tearful legacy?

©Keith Murphy

​

Sonnet 18: Shall I compare thee to the tax I pay?
(With my sincere apologies to William Shakespeare)

​

Shall I compare thee to the tax I pay?
Thou art more honest and more appropriate:
Rough winds now shake the wretched reign of May,
And Brexit’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometimes too hot the Paradise eye doth shine,
Upon my gold, reflection of the sinne’d,
And what seemed fair to declare truly not mine.
My hope for fortune large could now be dimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall Brexit drag on and chance delayed,
For fear the Tax Avoidance Directive grow’st:
So long as we can weave the lies for free,
And keep live Brexit, and fortune close to me.

©Keith Murphy

​

Sonnet for Article 50 : Methinks he would’st protesteth much!
 

Our Will; Methinks he would’st protesteth much!
Brexit marks our discontented winter.
By the pricking of our thumbs, We are such
Stuff as dreams are made of, soon to splinter?
But our eternal summer shall not fade,
Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself,
Is no spur suited for deal to be made.
Fight, not to be on history’s dusty shelf.
Parting is no sweet sorrow, for tomorrow
And tomorrow and tomorrow will come.
Our Bard of Stratford has quotes to borrow,
This midsummer madness must be undone.
And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here who doth hence remain!

©Keith Murphy

​

Take Not That Road
(With sincere apologies to Robert Frost)

​

Two roads diverged in my voting booth,
And sorry I was for callow youth
Who had their future ripped away,
By elders who had won their day
With Glorious Britannia and bended truth.

​

So look across, from whitened chalk,
If clods be washed away by sea,
Then Europe is the less goes talk;
Though as for that, I’d rather walk
In Europe with others, than just with me.

​

And both roads argue black is blue,
Impossible to reason, no step back.
Oh, I marked my ballot good and true!
Yet knowing how the lies accrue,
It’s a problem that May not easy crack.

​

I shall be telling no truth or lie,
Somewhere hence and at later date:
Two roads diverged and we should, I cry,
Have taken one less travelled by,
Not backwards to our previous state.

©Keith Murphy

​

The Blue and The Dim
(With my sincere apologies to WB Yeates)

​

We have the experts’ embroidered thoughts,
Enwrought with damming and literal truth?
The blue and the dim have had zero thoughts
On mad and bad of the Brexit truth,
They’re all so much tosh under our feet:
But we, expecting more, can now read these reams;
And wonder at such a pitiful feat;
Tread softly Davis with your rubbish reams.

©Keith Murphy

​

The Brand of MultiYork
(With my apologies to those who will lose their jobs if no buyer can be found)

​

Oh, the brand of MultiYork,
It had five fifty then;
The pound dropped low with the Brexit deal,
And they’re washed up in their fen.

​

Now when you are up, you are up,
And when you are down, you are down,
But with a cliff edge fall and trade screwed up,
You’ll simply sink and drown.

©Keith Murphy

​

The Lake Isle of Taxationfree
(With my sincere apologies to WB Yeats)

​

I will offshore and lease now, and go taxation free,
With a small fortune stashed there, my goods and chattels saved:
Nine bean-counters I have here, a spur for the money-tree;
And live a king in my tax-free glade.

​

And I hope for some peace here, but Brexit comes lumbering slow,
Lumbering slower than EU Tax Avoiding Directive, that’s the fatal sting;
My midnight witching hour approaches, from Europe we must go,
No future with the Directive thing!

​

I will surmise and assume now, my evidence locked away,
I pray for exit clock striking with a no deal at the door.
Pray I need not justify my selfish actions, or my payments grey,
I fear it in my weak heart’s core.

©Keith Murphy

​

The Leaders Debate 31 May 2017
(With sincere apologies to William Wordsworth)

​

I wondered at the baying loud
Those floating votes on vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, and Cambridge packed to gills;
Beside the stage, beneath the lights,
Muttering and promises put to rights.

​

Continuous bright my star did shine,
I answered in my TV way,
I stretched myself with every line
Along the marginals in UK:
Ten thousand votes I hoped I won,
Beckoning to me as I moved my tongue.

​

The waves of questions raged; but they
Did not get under skin of me:
A leader I am and truly say
I enjoy this jocund company:
I crazed – and praised – but little thought
What wealth this show to me had brought:

​

For oft, when counts of votes add up
In north or south or in between,
From victor’s cup I like to sup
And yell my blissful soundbite scream;
And then my heart with pleasure swells,
And dances with those victory bells.

©Keith Murphy

​

The May Fly and the Cabinet
(With my sincere apologies to Lewis Carroll, The Walrus and The Carpenter)

​

Her vote was sliding like a ski,
Sliding with all its might:
She did her very best to make
Her ‘landslide’ not a fight –
And this was odd, because it was
Hers to call by right.

​

Debates avoided sulkily,
Because she thought The Sun
Had done the business to be fair.
After the day was done –
‘I think I May, have won’ she said,
‘May Not’said everyone.

​

Her claim was lame as lame could be,
Her plans were lie on lie.
You could not see a truth, because
Pigs flew across the sky:
(No planes were flying overhead –
There were no planes to fly.)

​

The May Fly and her Cabinet,
Never sharing the same hand;
They fought like cat and dog you see,
Over who should rule the land.
So DUP they drafted in,
And paid a million grand!

​

If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
‘Do you suppose,’ the Mayfly said,
‘That they could get it clear?’
‘I doubt it,’ said the Cabinet,
And shed a bitter tear.

​

‘O Voters come and walk with us!’
The May Fly did beseech.
‘A Brexit Walk, a Brexit Talk,
Along the briny beach:
Rich may come but not the poor,
We’ll need you lot to leech.’

​

The eldest voters, most said aye,
And sheep-like they were led:
The wisest voters looked at her,
But n’ere a word they said –
Forty eight per cent did choose,
To remain in EU bed.

​

So May Fly had her Brexit fans,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their CV’s quite complete –
And this was odd, because, we know,
May Fly faced defeat.

​

For other Leavers following them,
The tale was riches more;
And thick and fast they came to pass,
Over cliff edge to the floor –
All piled up by those Brexit knaves,
No scrambling to the shore.

​

The May Fly and the Cabinet,
Limped on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Leavers stood,
And waited in a row.

​

‘The time has come, the May Fly said,
To talk of many fings:
Of deals – and bills – and borders lax –
Of open skies – and wings –
And why the talks are in a knot –
And if pigears are the things.’

​

‘But wait a bit,’ the Leavers cried,
‘Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us feel flat!’
‘No Deal!’ said the Cabinet.
They thanked them much for that.

​

A loaf of bread,’ the May Fly said,
Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed —
Now if you’re ready, Leavers dear,
We can begin to feed.’

​

But not on us!’ the Leavers cried,
Turning a lighter blue.
After such devotion, that would be
A dismal thing to do!’
The night is fine,’ the May Fly said.
‘Cliff will provide the view.

​

It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!’
The Cabinet said nothing but
‘Cut us another slice,
I wish you were wouldn’t cough so much —
I’ve had to ask you twice!’

​

‘It seems a shame,’ the May Fly said,
To play them such a trick,
After we’ve brought them out so far,
And made them O so sick!’
The Cabinet said nothing but
‘The butter’s spread too thick!’

​

I weep for you,’ the May Fly said:
I deeply sympathise.’
With sobs and tears she sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding her pocket-handkerchief
Before her streaming eyes.

​

‘O Leavers’, said the Cabinet,
‘We’ve had our little fun!
Shall we be trotting home again?’
But answer came there none —
And this was scarcely odd, because
They’d eaten every one.

©Keith Murphy

​

This Be The Worst
(With sincere apologies to Philip Larkin)

​

They shut you up, say GB’s heaven.
They’re really mean too, and they’re mad.
They will advance with thirty seven
And lose the extra that we’ve had.

​

But they’ll be shut up in their turn
By ties that we should never break,
It’s peace not war for which we yearn,
And no more jobs should Brexit take.

​

May holds on to power but just,
She weakens like a coastal shelf.
Stay in, ignore the leaver’s lust,
And let us share in common wealth.

©Keith Murphy

​

This Scuppered Isle
(With my sincere apologies to William Shakespeare, John of Gaunt and Richard II)

​

This right mess of things, this scuppered isle,
This earth of misery, this house of cards,
This path uneven, gimmie paradise,
A buttress built by evaders for themselves,
Against taxation and the wrath of poor,
They’re happy leaving then, this wider world
With precocious loan from those who are yet to be,
For those who’ll starve, the interest it’ll fall,
Too young to vote and with no voice at all,
So send an envoy with ill laid plans;
This curséd knot, this dearth, no helm this England,
We burst, this teeming wound of Brexit things.
Driven by their need, and hopeful of their worth,
Unwelcome now creeds who are far from home,
For Christians mock in true ribaldry,
And welcome not those who dress so differently,
Referendum’s ransom, we’ve been truly stung ;
A land of such drear trolls, this once proud proud land,
Fear for her reputation through the world,
We’re now leas’d out – I cry pronouncing it –
Leas’d out to a future of wartorn harm.
England, dragging others down into Brexit’s sea,
Whose rocky claws drag back history’s darkest page
Of warlike Mars, is now bounding with shame.
With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds;
This England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.

©Keith Murphy

​

We’ll Just Beg For Coins In Our Hat
(With my sincere apologies to Edward Lear)

​

Our Leader and Leavers went to see
If Brexit they could float.
They wasted our money, and thought how funny
When the pound gave a sort of a croak.
Then May looked around for the rest of her crew,
And sang through her throat catarrh,
“O Brexit means Brexit, It’s Red White and Blue!
What a beautiful Brexit you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Brexit you are!”

​

Leave said to the Leader, “You must cry foul!
This Europe is doing us in!
O let’s not be tarried! Our vote’s cash and carried:
Let’s chuck EU law in the bin”.
They campaigned away for what they did say,
Was the land where we take back control.
But there in a wood, a land border stood,
With a serious need to patrol,
Patrol,
Patrol,
With a serious need to patrol.

​

Dear May, you seem willing to sell for one shilling,
Anything that will keep the power blue.
You’ll take us away, from the world that is right,
And the one that you know to be true.
We’ll dine not on meat, but run through the wheat,
And trample our industry flat,
And hand against hand, on cliff edge or sand,
We’ll just beg for coins in our hat,
Our Hat,
Our Hat,
We’ll just beg for coins in our hat.

©Keith Murphy

​

When We Two Parted
(With my sincere apologies to Lord Byron)

​

When we two parted
In rancour amid fears,
Daft speaking started,
While Sense shed his tears.
May drew thy cheque and gold
Billions we’ll miss:
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow in this.

​

The borders a warning,
Sweat beads on our brow —
Peace goes a ‘mourning,
Our Good Friday’s not now.
Our vowels are all broken,
Our consonants fall;
One language not spoken,
The solution, a wall?

​

Our bell mute before me,
No knell in mine ear:
A shudder comes o’er me–
No clock can I hear.
So time, like I knew thee
Is just not awake–
Tick Tock, I don’t hear thee
Not time for a break.

​

Some Leavers regret!
At screen I do grieve,
And can never forget
Thy bus to deceive.
So kick out the deal,
Pick up thy hand,
How good does this feel?–
Fifty… Million… Grand.

©Keith Murphy

​

Albert The Prime Minister
(With sincere apologies to Marriott Edgar)

​

Albert were a tinsmith, a man of many talents.
He grew up hard in Northern climes,
With holidays to Blackpool’s famous seaside place,
Full of chips and ice cream chimes.

​

As a grand little lad he went to Zoo
With doting Mum and Dad.
He’d met a Lion, but then slipped up,
All around said it were bad.

​

A lion had swallowed young Albert.
He never got digested.
The Lion he coughed and up Albert came.
Eh.. his Mum she were disgusted.

​

‘Post-traumatic’ the doctor said,
Better find him job inside.
So Albert went to steelworks,
A wage it did provide.

​

Now Albert’s job in steelworks
Can to abrupt and sudden end.
Redundancy had reared its head,
Business too broke to mend.

​

Albert heeded some old advice,
So on his bike he got.
He cycled down to London Town,
Where he’d heard that jobs were hot.

​

He soon washed up as bike fix man,
Which played to his skill set.
He plied his trade in South West One,
He was amazed at folks he met!

​

One day a call to Downing Street
Came in all urgent like.
Albert pedalled round as fast he could,
To repair THE Boris bike.

​

He passed police at gate,
Nodding all pleb like and demure.
They directed him round t’ back,
Where things were less secure.

​

Now Boris’s bike were propped up like,
‘Gainst great big window frame.
He set to work on broken gears
When startled, he heard his name.

​

He looked right in to great long table,
Three famous faces sitting round.
He said to three assemble there,
“Which one of you made sound?”

​

The one called Boris jumped to feet,
And admitted it was he.
“We’ve something that may interest you,
We’re looking for PM you see.”

​

Theresa piped up all strident like,
“We need some fresh new blood.
For this administration,
Needs someone to take much mud.”

​

Now Michael, who’d been sulking quiet,
Let out with heartfelt thrill,
“I changed the law while no one looked,
And we can co-opt PM at will.”

​

Well Albert dropped his Allen keys
In total disbelief.
He often played in lower ranks,
But never played the Chief.

​

Nerves of steel had our Albert
And bags of tough resolve.
“I’ll take your job and do yer proud,
And you can keep your Tory gold!”

​

One billion pounds they’d set aside,
So news came as some relief.
Some fool to take that Brexit flack,
And the cost, not one penny piece.

​

Albert had always been studious type,
And took many night school classes.
Languages and politics were his thing,
With numerous examination passes.

​

MPs were shocked with new PM.
“How could this be?” they brayed.
But Michael had stitched that kipper tight,
So contrary case could not be made.

​

Albert took to his feet within the House,
Still dressed in Bib and Brace.
Within ten minutes of maiden speech,
All lay stunned with his poise and grace.

​

A good strong dose of common sense,
Albert were dispensing.
He did not lack the common touch,
His logic were unrelenting.

​

He trekked off quick to see EU,
Keen to engage and deal.
Speaking all their languages,
Albert made all rifts to heal.

​

A stunning deal within a week,
Had our Albert won.
UK had left that Europe thing
For the price of a Belgian bun.

​

Theresa, Mike and Boris were looking quite amazed.
‘How did you do it son?’
Albert replied all confidential like,
‘Well after surviving that there ruddy Lion, anything’s easily done!’

©Keith Murphy

​

2017 – Round One
(With my sincere apologies to William Blake)

​

And did those feet, in real weird shoes
Walk upon England’s mountains blue?
And was the ever loving press
To England’s Tory party true?
And did they countenance such loss
Across our lands from top to toe?
Their MPs sacrificed, shot with fear
But saved by Scotland’s Yellow No. 

 

Bring on the stage, that man of red!
Bring on the man with beard of wire!
Let him expound! Hear what he said!
Let him ignite his source of fire! 
He will not crash his own campaign
Nor U-turn on his printed view
Till he has built with everyone
A land for many, not the few.

Keith Murphy©
 

Oh My Union…

 

In a Brexit, with no exit,

Vacillating all the time,

Lived a leader, come appeaser,

With no reason, or no rhyme.

 

Oh my Union, Oh my Union,

Oh my Union, redefine.

You’ll be lost and gone forever,

Dreadful sorry, Union mine.

 

Remain she was, and this is scary,

With her shoes in number ten,

Red topped boxes, killing foxes,

Of Remain? She thought again.

 

Oh my Union, Oh my Union,

Oh my Union, redefine,

You’ll be lost and gone forever,

Dreadful sorry, Union mine.

 

She’s stained relations, with all nations,

Far and wide, across the sea,

Trampled cornfields, used her cookbooks,

Baked her special recipe.

 

Oh my Union, Oh my Union,

Oh my Union, redefine.

You’ll be lost and gone forever,

Dreadful sorry, Union mine.

 

Then the leader, come appeaser,

Said ‘No Deal’ is coming soon,

Batten hatches, veg your patches,

Dance this merry Brexit tune.

 

Oh my Union, Oh my Union

Oh my Union, redefine.

You’ll be lost and gone forever,

Dreadful sorry, Union mine.

 ©Keith Murphy

 

Life on Mars?

(With my sincere apologies to David Bowie)

​

It’s a God-awful big affair

For the girl in the leader’s chair

For the money is yelling no

But her instinct has told her to go

But no friend is nowhere to be seen

Now she walks through her sunken dream

To the deal that’s just making do

And she’s booked by a guillotine

​

But the deal is a saddening bore

For she’s sold it ten times or more

She could spit in the eyes of rules

As we ask her to focus on

​

Leavers fighting in the dance hall

Oh man, look at those cavemen go

It's the freakiest show

Take a look at the deal man

Cheating us a good buy

Oh man, wonder if we'll ever know

Is this the best selling show?

Is there life on Mars?

​

It’s on our Leaver’s much tortured brow

This Quickie Deal has grown up a cow

Now the workers are stuck for gain

‘Cause their rights are on sale again,

Seek advice from the House of Lords?

From Ibiza to the Norfolk Broads?

Rule Britannia is out of bounds

To my mother, my dog, and clowns

​

But this deal is a saddening bore

For we’ve heard it ten times or more

It just needs to be writ again

As I ask you to focus on

​

Leavers fighting in the dance hall

Oh man, look at those cavemen go

It's the freakiest show

Take a look at the deal man

Cheating us a goodbye

Oh man, wonder if we'll ever know

Is this the best selling show?

Is there life on Mars? 

©Keith Murphy

​

I Have Three Ships?

​

I have three ships to sail to me

On Brexit Day, On Brexit Day.

I have three ships to sail to me

On Brexit Day in the morning.

 

And two of them are fine I see

On Brexit Day, On Brexit Day.

And two of them are fine I see

On Brexit Day in the morning.

 

But one of them’s not here today

On Brexit Day, On Brexit Day.

But one of them’s not here today

On Brexit Day in the morning.

 

My millions to them I did bring

On Brexit Day, On Brexit Day.

My millions to them I did bring

On Brexit Day in the morning.

 

But Ramsgate’s quiet as quiet can be

On Brexit Day, On Brexit Day.

But Ramsgate’s quiet as quiet can be

On Brexit Day in the morning.

 

Perplexing choice of ships we see

On Brexit Day, On Brexit Day.

Perplexing choice of ships we see

On Brexit Day in the morning. 

©Keith Murphy

​

On the news that Kenneth Clarke has called for Article 50 to be revoked…

Our Father Ken

(With my sincere apologies to all who value and love the original version).
Our Father, who art in the House,
Kenneth be thy name;
Thy revocation come;
Thy vote be won,
To avoid this Armageddon
Give us this day Art 50 shred.
And forgive us our blue port passes,
As we forgive those who paint their red bus.
And lead us not into negotiation;
But deliver us from upheaval,
For thine is the wisdom,
Despite you’re a Tory.
Art 50 now sever.
Amen

©Keith Murphy

 

So Odd Is She

(With my sincere apologies to David Bowie and Major Tom)

No control, it’s all gone wrong
No control, it’s all gone wrong
Take my deal and make my stable strong

​

No control, it’s all gone wrong
Commencing rundown, time ticks on
Check position and may passports all be blue

Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One, Push off

​

There is No Control, it’s all gone wrong
I’ve really been betrayed
And the papers want to know whose dirt I’ll share 
Now it’s time to flick my reboot if I dare  

​

This has all gone wrong, this Nation’s Poll
I’m melting in my core
And I’m speaking in a most peculiar way
And my memoirs look so different today

​

For here
Am I kicking my own tin can
Far down the road
Brexit plan’s not true
But there’s nothing I can do.

​

Though I’ve lost some major commons trials
I’m feeling very smug
And I think my shelf life has some time to go
Tell my spouse I love him very much – he knows

 

Ground Control to Mrs. May
Your circuit's dead, there's something wrong
Can you hear me, Mrs. May?
Can you hear me, Mrs. May?
Can you hear me, Mrs. May?
Can you…

​

Here am I kicking my own tin can 
Far down the road
Brexit plan’s not true
But there’s nothing I can do

​

©Keith Murphy

 

Don’t Care (From Best Wide Tory) 

With my sincere apologies to Stephen Sondheim
 

There's no hell for us, 
Nowhere is hell for us. 
Brexit lies and a vote unfair,
All from us,
Don’t care.

This no crime for us,
Won’t cost a dime for us,
Leave together, no deal we’ll bear,
Business gone, we don’t care,
You’ll pay!

Don’t care.
We know we don’t need forgiving,

We’ll keep our standard of living.

Don’t care.

There's no hell for us, 
Nowhere is hell for us.
Have no plan yet we almost there,
Hold our hand and we’ll take you there,
Kowtow,
You’ll pay,
Don’t care!

© Keith Murphy

 

Ode To Joy - Raise Your Voice
 

Raise your voice to stop this madness,
Hold to truth, all lies to kill.
Now assert your opposition, 
With free air your lungs must fill.
For this Brexit’s born of lying,
Foolishness and blatant smear.
This division splits the Nation;
Born of lying, greed and fear.

​

Hateful hymns of segregation,
Now we hear them taking wing.
Where art found these special places,
Hell or worse from whence they spring?
(Repeat) Stand up proudly, stop this Brexit,
Don’t give in to fear or hate.
Let the trumpets sound this anthem,
Ode to joy - our future make.

​

Wrest this power from those who harm us,
Those who lie and those who cheat.
Take no more their songs of solace,
Turn no more your other cheek.
(Repeat) Strike out Brexit from our history,
No more pages must this take.
For our Nation knows much better;
Turn this tide and Brexit break.

© Keith Murphy

​

Changes

(With my sincere apologies to David Bowie)

​

Oh, yeah
Mmm

​

Still don’t know what we’ve been waitin’ for
And our time is runnin’ wild
A million dead end words and 
Every time you thought you’d got it made
It seemed the taste was not so sweet
So you turned yourself to leavin’
But we’ve never caught a glimpse
How we now just see the faker
You’ve got to go to pass our test

​

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
None that we can see
Ch-ch-changes
Don’t want the same old picture man
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
None that we can see
Ch-ch-changes
There's gonna have to be a different plan
Time may change May
But we don’t have time

​

Mmm, yeah

​

I watched you with your feeble tries
You’ll never leave it clean
Too much intransigence
And so your deals float through my eyes
But still the deals seem the same
And this country that you spit on 
As you try to change our worlds
We’re immune to your consultations
We're quite aware of what you’re trying to do

​

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
None that we can see
Ch-ch-changes
Just tell them to grow up in parliament
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
None that we can see
Ch-ch-changes
Where's your shame?
You've left us up to our necks in it
Time may change May
But we don’t have time

​

Strange fabrications fascinate me
Ah, changes not takin’
The place of that untrue

​

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
None that we can see
Ch-ch-changes
Ooh, look out you vote controllers
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
None that we can see
Ch-ch-changes
Pretty soon now you're gonna tell her
Time may change May
But we don’t have time
I said that time may change May
But we don’t have time
© Keith Murphy

​

Brexit: Act 3 Scene 1

To Leave, or Not to Leave
(With my abject apologies to Mr. Shakespeare)

​

 

To leave, or not to leave: that is the question
Whether ‘tis bolder all this time to suffer
The lies and stories by Leavers hewn,
Or to take up arms against a sea of troubles,
And supposing that we end this? I cry and weep
No more; and by a vote I say we’ll end
This heart-ache and Pandora’s open box
That we all do bear. This no abdication, 
Proudly I wish’d I would remain, to keep;
To keep my chance to dream: ay there’s the rub;
For in that draw of breath as thought doth come,
Pray this evil shuffles off, no more to spoil,
And we give praise: we will reject 
This calamity caused by Brexit life;
For who would bear the trips and falls of crime,
The oppressive wrongs, the bad boy’s defamation,
The sides of red marked bus, the law’s delay,
The indolence of her office and the turns
That not the patient, but the unworthy takes.
As we ourselves, the remain case make
To the leavers chagrin, their loads now bear,
Do grunt and sweat under a weary life,
For it’s they that dread this life after Brexit’s death.
This now divided country must take its form,  
No happy returns, no puzzles that skill
Can easily solve, so bear these ills we have,
Fly not to others that we know not of,
As solutions imposed makes losers of us all.
And thus the clue to our Nation’s resolution
Lies not in victory or defeat, but bought
With enterprises of great pith and moment
To regain concurrent cultures, so turn anew
And lose this false distraction – take this vow!
This fair Britannia! Ma'am, in thy division,
Be all these things remember’d.

© Keith Murphy
 

The Rational Anthem

God stop this Brexit thing,
Just drop this awful thing,
God stop this thing!
Send it defeated home,
Or where it cares to roam,
Long to abide alone, 
God stop this thing!

O let’s Remain and rise,
Scatter our enemies, 
And make them fall! 
Confound their knavish tricks, 
Confuse their politics,
Our Nation we must fix,
God stop this thing!

Not in this land alone, 
But be God's mercies known, 
From shore to shore! 
Lord make the nations see, 
That men should brothers be, 
And form one family, 
The wide world ov'er.
Stop every blatant lie,
Stop the No Deals they try,
God stop this thing!

We’ll not to hell descend,
For Britain's sake defend,
Our erstwhile EU friend, 
God stop this thing!
These Brexit gifts deplore, 
We’ll all be very poor,
Let us Remain!
May we not stop or pause, 
May we support our cause, 
And sing with heart and voice, 
God stop this thing!

© Keith Murphy
 

The Brexit of Our Discontent

(with apologies to Will Shakespeare and Richard lll)

​

I am the Brexit of your discontent,
Made glorious stronger by this no deal talk;
And all the lies that were writ upon my bus,
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now as my crowds shout their victorious oaths;
My poisoned charms now deliver not what was meant;
My twisted truths masquerade in merry meetings,
My dreadful lurches - no delightful pleasure.
Grim visaged war hath smoothed my wrinkled front,
And now instead of mounting barbed steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
I caper nimbly as I best remember
To the lacivious pleasing of a lute.
But l, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Not made to court an amorous looking glass.
I that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,
To set my Nation against its own to sin,
In deadly hate, the one against the other:
And if Remainers be as true and just
As I am subtle, false and treacherous,
This October day see all agument be mew'd up,
My proflegate waste which says you
And all your heirs, the death of you I'll be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here,
The future comes.

​

© Keith Murphy

​

A Funeral Speech Against Brexit

(With my apologies to William Shakespeare and Mark Anthony)

​

Friends, Remainers, countrymen, lend me your votes.
I come to bury Brexit, not to get it done.
The evil that this has done will live after us;
No good can be inferred from Brexit's bones;
So let it rest in peace.
The double dealers have told us Brexit is ambitious:
This is so and ‘tis a grievous fault,
And grievously must Brexit answer for it.
Here, under leave of all who would remain, 
For Remainers are honourable folk, 
Though drawn from disparate shores,
Wish I to speak at Brexit's funeral.
No friend of mine, he was unjust to me:
An ambition that overleapt itself,
A less than honourable plan,
He bought many captives by lies and ties
Ransomed by extremist coffers that did fill.
But here I am to speak what I do know.
Some did love him once, not perhaps without cause:
But now we know the truth, don’t mourn for him.
O judgment! Flee not to brutish beasts,
And lose not your power of reason. Bear with me;
No heart is in that coffin there with Brexit,
Pause not, and come back not to me.
 

© Keith Murphy

​

The Balcony Scene

​

(With my apologies to Romeo and Juliet)
 

Enough! what lies from Boris’s lips now break?
We have no peace, and truth is on the run.
Arise, fair sons, and silence this venomous goon,
Who is O so thick and truth doth thief,
That none do make up truth more than he:
Be not his maid, since he is envious;
His bestial ribaldry is but sick and lean,
And none but fools do share; cast it off.
He is so lazy, O, he needs a shove!
O, that he knew he were!
He speaks, yet he says nothing: what of that?
His eye entices; I will not answer it.
I am not sold, ’tis not to me he speaks:
Twelve of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Have my business and do entreat my eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they remain.
What if these lies he shares, reside in your head? 
The triteness of his speech doth shame those stars,
As daylight doth a thief; judged by eleven,
They piercéd through his scary prorogation - judged not right.
A spider spun and thought it were not bright.
See, how he leaves a stain upon this land!
O, that I had an X upon my hand, 
That I might vote away this freak! 

 

© Keith Murphy

​

Land of Dopes and Tories

​

Land of dopes and Tories, ruleth over me,
How do they control me, I who was born free?
Wiser and less wiser, do my pounds they spend 
God, protect our country, from all fools defend 
God, protect our country, from all fools defend

 

© Keith Murphy