Brexit Sonnet No.1 – ‘I Never Worried’
Before the ‘Beast of Brexit’ raised its head,
And the Tory party split to infect us all,
I never worried much on what I read,
I never worried much on UKIP’s call.
So should the credit go where credit’s due?
– To Little England’s finest, so keen to fight.
For making me worried and care what’s really true.
For making me worried and care what’s really right.
Have we awoke from our contented stupor,
Have we brushed the sleep from half closed lids?
Can we bear to watch the stupid rancour,
Over customs, borders, rights and tariff bids?
No more I’ll sleep my quiet and restful sleep,
Nor assume that right o’er wrong a watch will keep.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.2 – ‘Precious Time’
One Billion earned takes patience, faith and years.
To calculate it out on goodly pay,
It’s twenty thousand years of sweat and tears,
Twenty thousand years with little say.
Yet glibly do we quote this awesome sum;
To use an average wage it’s even more.
Thirty seven thousand years till done.
Beware this sum; it’s more for rich than poor.
One hundred millennia for Brexit’s wayward turn;
So grab that trunk, shake that moneyed tree,
To gullibly pay again for what we burn.
So please don’t spend or trade this time for me.
Disgorge your Pounds and Euros by all means,
But waste not my precious time on useless dreams.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.3 – ‘Light Blue Touch Paper’
So who can tell me what is wrong or right,
Who can channel thoughts along the track?
Dare I stare at mainstream media light,
Or risk fake jokers from social media pack?
A binary Cameron gave us choice for life,
An In or Out, a Remain or Leave to choose.
Campaigns misleading, cheating lies were rife;
In truth, I believe he thought he couldn’t lose.
But now I find a new voice rising high.
A grandee from the past has now reprised
Tarzan’s ‘Oh my darling’ shrieking cry;
To set his stall against Brexit’s blatant lies.
Powerful and not expected, this light blue voice.
Light blue, a touch paper, from age o’ little choice.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.4 – ‘Year of Trial and Error’
So now it’s waning, our year of trial and error,
Our brush with one inglorious year just gone.
We’ve had it all, deception, lies and terror,
With inappropriate MPs movéd on.
Votes just bought and sold like weed or pot,
So ‘tanks a billion’ say both sides of the border.
Papers lost then found, but paradise not,
Whilst pay cap kept our health and law in order.
But desist from maudlin thoughts and look ahead,
Hammer in those solid logic nails,
Torque those nuts of truth on well turned thread
And set the train of thought on well honed rails.
Our home once more again to prime and proof,
Next year, no rot, no rust, just honest truth.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.5 – ‘To Clothe The Wreck’
A game of chance, the climb to rule this land,
As much a slip of others as trip of yours.
Oft’ ruled by chance events, not thoughts well planned,
Same for freshers new, as time-served bores.
And now we see the cards in shuffled deck,
Prepared again to face the green baize cloth.
Plans anew prepared to clothe the wreck
That’s Brexit, now sad without its champagne froth.
But cards are dog-eared, faded, worn and ripped
With two faced jokers squirming in the pack.
The dealer haggard, drawn and ill-equipped,
Can’t stabilise for strength they plainly lack.
Quantitatively ease this wretched, worn out pile;
Print more talent and from Brexit, please resile.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.6 – ‘Rhapsodic Key of Blue’
So much hurrah, so much for cherished symbol,
That one could be forgiven to believe it true.
But for me there’s no electric tingle,
From passing ports in rhapsodic key of blue.
If this the blue, please God, what’s red and white?
Perhaps Saint George with maiden now entwined,
Will ask for one days leave from work as right,
Or any other Brexit Beast can’st find.
Our rods and cones are surely most to blame,
Mine own to colour problems greatly prone.
Not one of us view colour quite the same,
A divisive issue, the passport’s colour tone.
I’m glad I see not the colour nor the shade,
And turn’st my back on argument Blue has made.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.7 – ‘Words Escape Me’
Have you seen them, can we track them down?
Words escape me, on the run, or lost.
We had them once, now they can’t be found,
This Brexit friction hides a fearsome cost.
Pluralism can’t be seen or traced,
I’ve looked real hard but not a sign from May.
Binarism has won that crucial, crazy race,
Whilst Tolerance, my once best friend has gone away.
What of Inspire, our fine Olympic friend?
He was there to share that great event,
But now, Falsehood’s beat him on the bend,
And where was Multiculturalism sent?
Camerooned we are, left to shout ‘In’ or ‘Out’,
Our Language, Culture, Country – now in doubt.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.8 – ‘ ‘Tis Poison ‘
Our fridge is full of surfeits, sad and left,
Our appetite now sickened, but not yet dead.
The answer for remains, our thoughts bereft.
Perhaps some mustard with a little bread?
Likewise our Brexit dish, now pulled apart,
With prime cuts gone to tables set on high.
Just crumbs beneath and off cuts of jam tart,
Our cherished trickledown theory gone awry.
So clear your fridge of broken Brexit brunch,
Be creative with those Brussel sprouts,
And cook us up a proper roasted lunch,
With nothing gone to waste and no left outs.
‘True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings’,
But Brexit meal, ’tis poison that this brings.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.9 – ‘Star Flagged Lovers’
Here we stand, families joined by fate,
To stop a parting that’s not such sweet sorrow.
Our newest stars, crossed by Brexit’s gate,
Bring us together in common cause, not quarrel.
So play not with traditions and family rights,
Play not the part of jester, fool or knave,
Be not stupid, crass or fighting fights,
For stupidity proffers but that tragic grave.
No plague on all our houses must we see.
Do not by death bury thy parents’ strife,
But by life, rise up together, strong and free;
No biting thumbs or loss of lover’s life.
Support our star flagged lovers whatever your clan,
Be it Montague, Capulet or any other realm of man.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.10 – ‘An Ordinary Life’
An ordinary life, untroubled by clash of war,
No uniform to don, nor bayonet thrust.
Untroubled by sights and sounds at hell’s great door,
Not like father and grandad who found they must.
So desperate need and patriotism have ne’er been mixed
As cocktail for the young to binge or sip.
No arms to bear as sense departs betwixt
Near neighbours; now dear friends on self same trip.
So bid my children off at eighteen years,
Not clad in khaki, navy or lighter blue,
But to a different war with different fears,
And futures painted bold in differing hue.
Brexit not this ordinary life with friends,
Remain, regain our place, and make amends.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.11 – ‘Co-operative Action’
The ozone hole, a once fearsome deadly foe,
Is retreating, shrinking day by day.
‘Effective co-operative action’ brings it low.
Is this fake or true, watcha say?
So a problem sans frontières is on the wane,
But another rises from creator’s list,
Just as dangerous, man made just the same.
Two ‘special relations’ now share common cyst.
Both conditions stem from self same source;
An apathetic body politic.
A body through which weary blood does course,
The patients not yet dead, but very sick.
So ‘co-operative action’, raise your many hands,
Breathe life, not death to freedom’s related lands.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.12 – ‘The Man in Covert coat’
What words used he, the Man in Covert coat,
Did he dare to speak of a second coming?
Of a Nation’s choice, a chance for second vote,
Or is it simply part of plan most cunning?
So ‘May be just’ I heard him say out loud,
May be there, but ‘Just’, I thinketh not.
So give me a second vote, I remaineth proud
To cross my paper and rid us of this plot.
So in these confines, let slip the dogs of war;
Cry ‘Havoc’, let carrion feed on Brexit’s bones.
And bury the deed ‘neath curséd altar floor,
To leave as dust and spare the blesséd stones.
His words flew up, his thoughts remain below,
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.13 – ‘Changeth Your Mind’
Change it; take it back from whence it came,
It doesn’t fit and colour’s just not you.
You really need one cheaper, not the same,
Accept no credit note, nor goods in lieu.
Change of mind is much the same as this.
Bus again to Referendum’s store,
Were goods sold fit for purpose, new and crisp,
Were price tags right or do now, we payeth more?
So changeth now, the goods were plainly flawed,
The items purchased poorly made and wrapped.
Don’t kid yourself, let sense not be ignored,
Let not your future be forever trapped.
Change your mind; we still have shop receipt,
To changeth not is to fall for rude deceit.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.14 – ‘One Tragic Production’
Witness now this Carillion carry on;
Be it victim of its boundless chiming debt,
Or government multi-tasking gene now gone.
One tragic production awaits, our stage quite set.
A flying crown of fifty years brought low,
A treasured cat now eyeing Ireland’s shores.
Our EMA jobs and funds to Holland flow,
And no seat of comfort in Yorkist sofa stores.
So as director primes the nervous cast,
That padding beast ‘Uncertainty’ stalks the wings.
He knows his lines, for prompts he’s never asked,
But others falleth by his hand, like kings.
So slay this beast upon the Nation’s stage,
And acteth not from Brexit’s tragic page.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.15 – ‘Can I have some more?’
‘Please sir’ piped up the disadvantaged kid,
‘Can I have some more’ his heartfelt plea.
Now ‘Dodger’ Boris has upped his Brexit bid,
He wants some more sir, haversham cake and tea.
Our mutual friend now biddeth up the sum,
And expectations raised as stats are twisted
Yet again; God Bless us every one!
Stick To Facts Sir! Lies must be resisted.
This surely is the worst of times I think,
To steerforth that blood red lying bus again.
Ye beam me no affection with one eyed blink,
Whilst calculated other shines with rude distain.
So park up your bus, let it lie unseen, unheard,
And let ghostly Brexit rest in peace, deferred.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.16 – ‘Diverse Woven Strands’
Our embroidered story, with boundaries crissed and crossed,
With boats and men ‘o horse in serried rows.
With comets, relics, hawks and battles lost
And headless, limbless men this fabric shows.
Some say it t’was the Kentish Saxon hand
Whose needle rudely stabbed the linen cloth.
Others swear title stems from William’s land;
But time flows by and quenches warlike wroth.
So histories fused, and diverse woven strands
Are spun together, strong and future proof.
A Nation built on history’s shifting sands,
Woven under Europe’s very roof.
Treat it well this cloth of ours to share,
Break not the warp or weft on Brexit’s snare.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.17 – ‘Digestives Now Shrinketh’
The Deadly Sins have raised their hornéd heads,
Each with elbows sharpened, pushing hard.
Lust demands divorce and new found beds,
Whilst Greed, he craves the tax avoidance card.
A feckless Pride buffs up her empire days;
For Sloth, just look at Impact papers lacking.
Gluttons seeketh more power from Tudor maze,
Yet we to date see not foul Brexit packing.
Europe the enemy, our Angered Chancellor said;
And Brexit Envy must be all around,
So say those whom Brexit’s newly wed.
This senseless sinning, Brexit’s killing ground.
Reminding us Brexit cometh not from heaven,
Digestives now shrinketh by sinful number seven.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.18 – ‘Shall I compare thee to the tax I pay?’
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
​
Brexit Sonnet No.19 – ‘Cut Him Out In Little Stars’
I wake up in the morning full of hope,
That dam will burst and stagnant water drain.
I refer of course to Brexit’s scaffold rope,
Though noose of which we view our freedom wane.
I take my midday meal with strong belief,
That sense will win and vanquish all that’s wrong.
I resteth not at end of day in grief,
But thankful Brexit endeth day less strong.
What straw exists to break this camel’s back?
Large, like seismic rumbling underground;
Or smaller, one symbolic tic or tack,
Or border, tax or trading scandal found?
Cut him out in little stars to shine,
Twelve as rounded circle, I’ll take as mine.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.20 – ‘No More Hell-Broth’
Our Brexit bringers are cross with their leader ‘tis said,
Confidence lost with their gabardine dream of last year.
The model’s moved on, but distress on how they are led
Is causing them angst, with some pain; even fear.
Kindness is due to the man in the eye of the storm,
Well served his country with arms; OBE from our Queen.
Unseated by hurdle in midst of one’s life is the norm,
For a man who selects, or elects, a questionable team.
Now confidence escapes our Brexit bearers,
As wobbly Brexit cauldron boils and bakes,
It’s toxic mix of economic errors.
We suffer, whilst fools of all, it makes.
So eye of newt and toe of frog be gone!
We’ll drink no more hell-broth to Brexit’s song.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.21 – ‘This Emerald Isle’
So where’s it gone, this border fraught of ours?
It can’t be seen, this separation sore,
Drawn ‘cross troubled Isle by warlike Mars;
Scratched on map by infected hand of war.
Ignored by happy breed of Brexit man,
This spectre’s yet to come to Leaver’s feast,
Its fortress build and scupper faultlined plan,
With moat defensive, to drown the Brexit Beast.
So letteth not your Brexit lover’s passion
Be chilled or damped by spectre’s waiting rage.
Ignore it by all means and truth do ration,
And think of happier things that turn your page.
This blessed plot, this earth, this Emerald Isle,
Must choketh not on Brexit’s bitter bile.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.22 – ‘How Can I Leave Thee’
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 friends, 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
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 23 – ‘So tell me Loving Parents’
So tell me loving parents, please do share,
What at the close of tens held you fixed?
Tell me what you did at Brexit’s lair
As no more we, with Europe’s people mixed.
Did you vote against or not at all,
Did you stay silent, scared to speak truth out?
Did you stand and watch our slowmo fall
As cold inertia stifled freedom’s shout.
O to be older and thus with Brexit fought!
I would have shouted loud and long of harm
And grief, that parting to us later brought,
But now’s too late for righteous raging balm.
So loving parents, how did you resist,
That strickened bleakest future I’ve just kissed?
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 24 – ‘Our Self-Destruction Seed’
The patient’s waited, a patient wait of fear
For surgeon’s skills and healing hands to feel.
At last, at last, the waiting room is clear
And turn to take on table, fate to seal.
Choices made by all and consents all signed,
All parties set, ignoring worrying tales.
Sacrifice and cost to all resigned,
With future planned in sunny upland vales.
But wait, what’s this, it can’t be done to plan,
Complications! Truth be told we knew,
Warned as we were by expert’s careful scan.
So if not Brexit, Brino’ll have to do.
What wasted time, what careless greedy need
Has planted this; our self-destruction seed?
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 25 – ‘Treasure These Islands’
So has the ship really sailed away
With second EU vote stowed in hold?
No blasting horn was heard across the bay,
And we were not of this leaving schedule told.
Our all inclusive, most elusive guest,
Has rummaged yet again for leading role.
Potent power, his hand should rudely wrest,
From those who’ve rented out their hollow soul.
As anchors raise and hands are all on decks,
As white coated Stewards fuss and rush with work,
As all aboard means Captain’s final checks.
None of these, their duties lightly shirk.
So avast me hearties, and hoist the mainbrace square
And treasure these islands, with referenda fair.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 26 – ‘It’s you must Brexit kick’
What will be doing at Brexit’s final tack,
As doors and ears and eyes do closeth shut?
Why have we set our clock on backward track,
To push our crippled cart through backwoods rut?
When will this demented set of mixed up notions,
Be dumped in history’s rotting landfill site?
How can this politic, this rage that crosses oceans,
Be stopped; no more our children’s lives to blight.
Where to make your voice of protest heard,
Your choice, there’s more than just a page to turn.
Who can lead us, armour clad and spurred?
For he or she that pricks intent we yearn.
Enquired I have from honest serving six,
But truth be told, it’s you must Brexit kick.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No.27 – For Article 50
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
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 28 – ‘Walketh Not With John’
Grave concerns arise in Worcester’s crypt,
Bad King John and Arthur, Prince of Wales
Lie, by hand of history firmly gripped;
Two adjacent souls telling diverse tales.
One a king despite his sibling’s fame,
Magna Carta his reluctant final gift.
The other died unknown, no crown to claim,
His Spanish Bride, a pawn in later rift.
Let not Brexit have a John like fate,
But write a happy close for Arthur’s tale.
Europe bound by marriage to this our state,
No second son, his covetous boat to sail.
So let not youthful Arthur die again,
-Walketh not with John, but with us, Remain.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 29 – ‘Snake Oil’
The tumbleweed rolls with silence across our set,
Saloon doors swing to access boarded walk,
As gunslingers stride their silent deadly threat,
And graveyard stones of next to greet do talk.
The Sheriff’s jail is filled with drunks and bums.
Saloon plays not its upright western tune,
While honest folk await to see what comes,
As stage pulls up in town at highest noon.
A pair of leopard-print shoes now peep out proud,
From stagecoach door as arrivals drop down stairs.
Their owner stands, surveys the gathered crowd,
And pulls from carpet bag their snake oil wares.
To sell is easy in one crazy town like this,
My snake oil offering for Brexit’s deathlike kiss.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 30 – ‘No Peace Gone Missing’
We have a useless changing jigsaw game;
Its mutating, rotating pieces do problems pose.
No corners or edges to set within the frame,
The box, no fixed or constant picture shows.
A few weeks back our custom rules looked set,
And picture showed us Ireland ‘sans’ divide.
But now our North and South look not well met,
With pieces missing or just left on the side.
The picture changed to show what’s most in need,
For those whom power they most desire and crave.
The pieces changed by sleight of hand or deed,
The road to hell with their intentions pave.
So make Brexit ex, divorce this useless pain,
No puzzle, no border, no peace gone missing – Remain.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 31 – ‘The Greatest Showman’
What a shame we could not launch and hold,
Those Brexit plans in Falcon’s heavy grasp.
Sixty four tonnes of payload so we’re told,
Canst it yet be done, who should we ask?
I’m sure some space in car we could have found,
For Brexit’s backseat drivers; we do have some!
A flick of switch, then whoosh, a roaring sound,
And Elon’s car with cargo heads off to Sun.
The Greatest Showman’s crown has just been claimed,
Three stages used to get this drama done.
Two stages land but one missed at what it aimed,
A ‘super majority success’ by two to one.
Now space is ex, hats off to Mr. Musk ,
Make Brexit ex and scatter plans like dust.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 32 – ‘So Experts Say’
So experts say whichever deal we get,
We’ll be worse off than if we didn’t leave.
So experts say where’s under greatest threat,
Is where we voted out and did not grieve.
So experts say that migrants will not come,
And crops are left to rot in farmer’s field.
So experts say that notice that we sent,
Can be reversed before a deal is sealed.
So experts say the airlines may not jet,
And Ryan tickets seem not to disagree.
So experts say that Irish line’s a threat,
If rules are not aligned and trade not free.
So experts say; and we should listen hard,
For we will pay for future Brexit marred.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 33 – ‘No Kaizen Rules’
No just in time, no Kaizen rules for this,
Our partners fear their European loss.
Their products here, our ill judged tariffs kiss,
And futures now approach that Brexit cross.
So Civic pride in Swindon now looks bent,
Whilst Makems count their cash from Duke of note,
And wonder if their future’s up for rent,
As smallest minds construct that savage moat.
Derby’s with them, in topmost managed one,
Avensis, Auris and now its hybrid bred;
Their engines made in Deeside Wales to run.
All this we risk to lie in Brexit’s bed.
Set not the sun on those that standards set,
Make ‘em here! This Brexit we’ll regret.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 34 – ‘Reckless Love’
O my sweet, my dearest Valentine,
I loved you with a passion hard not soft.
So unprepared was I to make you mine,
Foolish, I stumbled, not counting our passion’s cost.
I loved your edges, etched hard in glorious red,
I loved your laugh as snowflakes fell around,
I loved control, my dearest purest bred,
I loved our dreams writ large on bus I found.
Our love, it did protest ‘gainst ‘stablished rule,
Our ardour, defied the expert’s curséd eye.
But no more will I play that stupid fool,
As life we build on Brexit’s toxic lie.
So love me no more, release your jealous grasp,
I craveth not the reckless love you ask.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 35 – ‘Brexit’s Mournful Chant’
Opposition now resides in minds,
Not on commons benches, but in thoughts unseen.
Mind full mess of contradictory lines,
In single brains with owner stuck between.
Belief is zero whilst action scores a one,
A binary trap, this murky game of life.
By lust for power, this game is cruelly spun,
Where thoughts and actions mesh in constant strife.
Spinning plates must stop their spinning game,
And topsy-turvy thoughts must clear away.
Fall and Spring must cease to be the same,
And tongue, our truest thoughts should once more say.
This dissonant chord is Brexit’s mournful chant,
Let acts align with thought, our gods please grant.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 36 – ‘Pancaked’
It’s pancaked, this great idea now bashed and battered,
This stodgy mix of odds and ends whisked up,
Our hopes of future fortune cruelly shattered,
Wine with lemon laced, our bitter cup.
Our choice for Lent has never been less clear,
What to lose for forty days, what choice!
Lose it longer, I’ll shed no bitter tear;
Cliff? Be tempted not by Brexit’s voice.
So enjoy the mix for just this single day,
And habit not to make of frequent use.
For extra pounds and stones may come your way,
But by measures valued, you will surely lose.
So mixeth not your muddled mix of woes,
Be gone foul Brexit – your tempting chapter close!
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 37 – ‘Road to Brexit’
This road to Brexit’s poorly signed and mapped,
It twists and turns and dead ends do prevail.
It’s not on any sat nav, its surface badly cracked,
And rutted tracks, they tell a sorry tale.
No smart ideas to aid our flowing lane,
No highway code to keep us safe and sound.
Just contra-flows in a sea of aching pain,
And no signage placed to bring us homeward bound.
Yet speedsters speed, the limit they do flout,
No cameras work to record their blatant charge.
No yellow lines, just red ones round about,
Economy mpg? Now not large.
Our syncromesh has dropped its cog again;
Best stop, restart and engageth Nation’s brain.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 38 – ‘Political Incline’
Our ingrained political geometry has not changed,
It’s always been three sides with rightish angle.
Political incline set by side size range,
Now at max, as even sides do wrangle.
Our sides, no number three and four we find,
Or even count at twelve opposing five.
If t’were, politics could be less inclined
To slip down slope, in Brexit’s mud to dive.
It matters not how acute our shape is moulded,
It matters not if sides don’t square together.
It matters only that angles, when unfolded,
Are enough for U-Turn in Brexit’s hated tether.
So flourish your protractor, be obtuse,
And put Pythagoras to really useful use.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 39 – ‘Write Love For you?’
What can I write for my blighted Brexit dream,
My pen doth quiver but my mouse doth shrieketh more.
Can I write love for your once so golden gleam?
Can I write love for my vote you proudly wore?
I so loved you, but your brave imperious stance,
Hid ‘neath veil of falsehood’s lying tears.
My faith, now shattered, like Templar’s broken lance
On fields of tilt; made foolish afore my peers.
My throat doth throttle those very words that kiss,
And I cans’t not embrace your caustic charm.
Your eyes are blind, your ignorance is bliss,
And mine ears now deaf to your siren calls of harm.
So Leave me now and I will not object.
Write love for you? This notion I reject.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 40 – ‘Country v Party’
So what’s the choice with PM’s Brexit things?
On one side party stands and makes its claims,
On other, country pulls rich encoded strings,
Whilst others, waiting, fan the vicious flames.
A hopeless cause, St Jude must wryly smile
And stifle secret chuckle at mounting gloom.
Are Country left to rot on poisoned pile
Whilst party, its new and old adherents groom.
To destroy her Party, this could never be,
So hold tight, lifeboats on their davits swing,
Made ready for the rich and taxéd free,
As Country sinks below these waves of sin.
Country v Party, an uneven useless bout,
Renew, Remain and wipe these Maybugs out.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 41 – ‘Austria, not Australia!’
I’m Mad to the Max, brimmed full with deep disgust.
So who’s on the bike and who’s in the car with the grunt?
Who’s the guy that is good, is it he that is heavily trussed,
Or shot in the leg, or dragged down the road for a stunt?
This violent dystopian vision we’ve seen acted out,
Let’s not play it for real with choices we now have to make.
No leather clad hero our Minister with Exiting shout,
His workaday car, no vibrating V8 doth shake.
Rockatansky’s our man, whilst beastly beast doth prowl,
This Brexit Road, paved not with gold, but hate.
So maybe Mad Max is not our future foul.
So dear Uncle Max, tell now of future fate?
‘Your Sound of Brexit Music will end just like mine,
In a world maxed on evil, where the sun omits to shine.’
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 42 – ‘Away Day in Chequers’
An away day in Chequers, a jolly, a Cabinet ride,
Meetings and flip charts galore and blu-tack with tea.
Not a plan do we have, no map, no compass, no guide,
No ideas to extol, no principles here that I see.
Maybe we’ll sit and break ice as you do for a laugh,
One fact unknown about me I’ll share if you like.
But hold, we cannot, it’s quite simply rash and most daft,
To give you, my ‘colleagues’, my ‘friends’, this ammo to snipe.
But a small price to pay, these meetings so dreadfully fraught,
For as evening sets in, our banquet arrives in the hall.
No chicken gone missing, just indulge me ‘till I am bought.
I’ll wine and I’ll dine and at first light, to bed I will crawl.
My words I will watch with great care; Brexit truth I must keep,
And let falseness with untruths prevail as my conscience doth sleep.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 43 – ‘I am the one makes your fight worthwhile’
Do not abuse or despise my favoured cause;
For I am that one that makes your fight worthwhile.
I will not give up, I will not fold nor pause,
Nor cheer as we proceed down Devil’s aisle.
Without me, a hollow toll your victory rings;
For I am the one that makes your fight worthwhile.
I will not resign, believe in naive things,
Nor cheer as nation chokes on bitter bile.
No bags pack I, no plane nor ship to board;
For I am the one that makes your fight worthwhile.
I will not go quietly into that night O Lord,
Nor let go of that, that Brexit doth defile.
So oppose I will, with all my might and main,
Sense and wits may leave but I… Remain.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 44 – ‘The sun that’s setting’
Is that the sun that’s setting, the end now nigh
For the day brought on by foolish spit and spat?
As shafts of sunlight streak the lead lined sky,
This low sun sinketh now, its cold last act?
For promise new anoints the morn to come,
Of red coats overwhelming those in blue.
For customs shared, numbers now bang the drum.
Not long our poop deck manned by motley crew.
So sleep your sleep, for who knows what may be,
As ivory towers do falleth at our feet.
We’ll build again, and trade with tariffs free,
Those chains of heartless hardened Brexit cheat.
So come sun, we’ll meet again in warmer days,
When all ‘tis done with this bitter Brexit craze.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 45 – ‘A Plan of A’
So trade has taken an unaccustomed twist,
A union of the many with the few.
A Plan of A our table now doth kiss,
Not penned by her of fancy leopard shoe.
The carpet edge has not been raised to sweep
A broader, border issue out of sight.
So tariff free on pavements grey we keep,
My deep heart’s core no border hard doth blight.
So rising off the Brexit playroom floor,
This crawling babe to walk has now been taught.
That aimless, planless crawl of woe no more,
Our common house to rightful senses brought?
So plan hath not perfection writ large within,
Just first small step on path to Brexit’s bin.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 46 – ‘A Brexit Gift’
What larks! A Brexit gift with double bow,
A tale of two shires with border slung between.
As cameras flash, a cashing stream doth flow
To feed and nourish London’s clear air dream.
Have I missed a move, a deliberate flit,
To lands with stranger names I do not know?
Wonder or Never look a perfect fit,
Where puff and bluff are seen to run the show.
At Camden’s line, keep thy steely gaze
‘Gainst escaping toffs with stupid schemes.
A channel bridge, some bodies to be raised;
And poetic gaffes galore with clumsy themes.
So watchtowers keep your silent, weary guard.
See him escaping, blow your whistle hard!
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 47 – ‘Hear Hear John’
‘The wellbeing of the people’ I hear him say,
‘That is what parliamentary sovereignty means’,
He also said, this last year’s man of grey,
This Brixton Boy, dreamer of free vote dreams.
Applaud I must, a decent view no less,
On Brexit’s chaotic canvas a decisive stroke?
No paint by numbers will see us through this mess,
A brush with powerful past for Brexit folk.
As high street creaks with Brexit driven strain,
And factory sites look close at rising sun,
A glint of hope, from man with ‘nought to gain,
‘Let Parliament decide’; with this I’ll run.
Just listen hard for Grantham’s daughter gone,
And you may her utter; ‘Hear Hear John’.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 48 – ‘Weather Report’
I’m the ‘Beast from the East’, a blizzard of painful degree,
The bus and the train now refuse to adhere to the clock.
With a blast of my breath, your diaries I now can wipe free,
And postman’s delayed; I make silent his regular knock.
Schools I can shut with a blink of my icicled eye,
And wildlife I kill with a beat of my cold hearted heart.
Bills I will raise through the roof as my snow passes by
And misery I bring, as power lines and cables I part.
Events I can cancel and trash, I do what I like.
I’m the sting in the tail, winter’s last roll of the dice.
But humbled I be when I see the Beast next to strike,
Armed to the teeth and not pleasant nor patient nor nice.
The ‘Beast that is Brexit’ ; I’m frightened so quickly withdraw.
Beast do not leap till après my imminent thaw.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 49 – ‘I’m a Sonnet’
I’m a strong and stable sonnet, a sonnet
That has the red white and blue upon it.
A sonnet that means sonnet for the many,
A red line sonnet that costeth not a penny.
I’m a sonnet that taketh back control,
A sonnet that can perform a clifftop roll.
I’m a sonnet that manages my divergence
From fiscal, military and political convergence.
I’m a no hard Irish border sonnet now,
A paradise sonnet in taxation row.
I lack wellbeing in my very bones,
And change my mind like others changeth phones.
So tanks a billion sonnet, you’ve been great,
To get our country back, I just can’t wait.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 50 – ‘Where will this end?’
So where will this end, this turgid crunch of truth?
These plastic straws that break our crumbling back.
This extraction, of healthy growing tooth
From solid jaw that hath no single crack.
I predicteth not, it’s foolish feckless waste
To chart a course of hapless drifting ship.
The end from me is hid, but tears I taste,
As from newly opened eyes they drip.
Little I do, but use the words I’ve got.
‘Spur my proud horse hard, and ride in blood’?
No, I write and with honour, patient plot
My course starlit, atop of flying scud.
‘Mine honour is my life; both grow in one;
Take honour from me, and my life is done.’
©Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 51 – ‘A Tray of Haddock’
A tray of Haddock upended and dispatched,
A theft of profiles used for greedy gain,
Friends to shoulder up to as plot is hatched,
And teacup storm leaves them in passport pain.
Can I remain; yes… but quiet I mean,
Can I stay silent with tongue held hard and fast ?
Can I accept this damage and make no scene?
Can I say Sonnet 50 is my last?
For three long weeks my pen lay still and sleeping,
For three long weeks I uttered not one word,
For three long weeks the nonsense kept me weeping,
Whilst Brexit greweth more and more absurd.
So on we go to stars as yet unknown,
And from the future, take not this stupid loan.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 52 – ‘He raised his voice’
He raised his voice, the obvious to state.
This was not a Friday good he quickly found,
From front of bench he had to relocate
And from frozen wastes his views expound.
The Emperor’s brand new clothes now come to mind,
So please resist, do not desist to quote
The obvious; for our country needs your worthy kind.
A state where free and fair we need to vote.
So politics is now a dreary game
Of toe the line, two sword lengths in between
Our warring factions, different but the same.
Our warring factions, no difference now be seen.
For the many not the few it’s said,
Well now we see the few our Brexit’s wed.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 53 – ‘I remain yours sincerely’
Please direct me forthwith to a darkened quietened room,
I am old and need to reboot and rethink my paths.
One bordered isle is set on road to doom,
And I should not resist what Brexit asks?
I should drop my care for that fair isle,
Forget the years of desperate sorrow sown.
And be pleased to place its distressing needs awhile,
Beneath an exit from our peaceful home?
I should in fact pay any wicked price.
Tariff jobs out and pickers keep away,
Accept a vote played out with loaded dice.
Any price we must for Brexit pay?
So dip into your shrunken wallet if you will,
I won’t, I remain yours sincerely, still.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 54 – ‘None do want it’
None do want it, that topmost job too tough,
Ambition blunted is Brexit’s bitter barb.
Just wait your turn for seas less foaming rough,
Take not a watch to clothe you in beggar’s garb.
Nails to cling to power are not required,
Mistakes and judgment calls may be false,
But even your tragic errors are much admired
By those whom otherwise would take a different course.
Thus doublethink, malquotes and the land of minitrue
Is growing fast to disunite this kingdom.
None to take a lead, please… after you;
Ambition death, a fatal Brexit symptom.
Stupidity and genius? Genius hath a limit,
O brave new world, that has such people in’t.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 55 – ‘An L’ish Article’’
How do you feel; should we go again
To vote on it, to put your pencilled cross
In whatever box causes you smallest pain?
In whatever box doth lead to smallest loss?
Should claims of cheating start us off anew,
With argued chiselled words on paper form,
And large majority, or will the simple do?
Rights now trampled, like fields of summer corn.
In this debate I’ll forego my trampled rights,
What’s done is done and cannot be undone.
Ignore this fiddled outcome and fight our fights,
Harvest our corn that’s left and no rerun.
No second bite on Brexit’s curséd crust,
But revoke an L’ish Article, now we must.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 56 – ‘Fields of Pain’
This day our PMs on a foreign tour,
To a land with differing customs from her own.
To a land of which she can’t be sure;
It’s all so new this difference freshly grown.
It’s a land where tax is paid by all who work,
It’s a land where jail awaits those breaking laws,
It’s a land where expenses offer no free perk,
It’s a land where recess offers not a pause.
It must be strange to visit this foreign land,
Unusual sights, unusual sounds and smells.
Be quick, for this ancient union may not stand!
Take it in, this land where Brexit dwells.
So please enjoy this jolly foreign trip,
As through fields of pain, we gently skip.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 57 – ‘This Friday Good’
This Friday Good, this annual day of fate;
For twenty years it’s marked a point in time
When peace enough, displaced that vicious hate
And agreement sprung, from signed on dotted line.
Before this, a harder, harsher line of peace
Did need to stalk that fearful Ulster night.
So progress made, it should not die or cease,
Forget me not as Brexit’s bun you bite.
Cross your bun, but not your border hard,
As Brexit gambles with this such fragile flower.
This march of peaceful progress don’t discard,
No more the bomb, no more the watching tower.
So ‘tis no season for this Brexit band,
If troubles embers are disturbed and fanned.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 58 – ‘A Deceitful Collection of Acts’
What’s to be done, when all looks to be going awry?
What’s to be done when your picture is blurred and deformed?
What’s to be done when your headlines are making you cry?
What’s to done when your rivals are better informed?
Why ‘tis simple, pull the strings that you own or can bid,
To tell lies or be silent on the questions that vex or divide.
Invent some crisis on which you can appear to be big,
And thus ensure that you and your like can survive.
Repeat and repeat ‘till you’re blue in the face and the gills,
Develop the tissue to envelop a convenient truth.
Control and select, defame and reject all that drills
To the truth of the scam, and the abuse and ill-use of the booth.
This death of the truth, this winnowing waste of the facts
Is Brexit’s bequest ; a deceitful collection of acts.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 59 – ‘Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
I’ve trooped around as schoolboy, youth and Dad,
On wet weekends, I’ve been to quite a few.
Some Victorian, both the good and bad,
Some, a ghastly history gristle chew.
So bring it on this latest hall of fun,
This collection of antiques, now past all use.
These stuffed exhibits dead, their life now run,
These artefacts now lost and in recluse.
From the Brexit bus to dodgy Facebook ads
It’s said, will occupy this antique land.
This monument to foolishness and fads,
Falsehood’s fire so richly stoked and fanned.
So build me this museum beyond compare,
‘Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 60 – ‘Take back what’s been took’
Not a done deal, it’s far from yet complete,
Not a good deal, it’s bad for one and all.
So let the people vote, no need to cheat,
No personal profiles must we hack or trawl.
So People’s Vote, do raise this new found cry,
So People’s Vote, we now know more what’s what,
We know chances are that jobs could fly,
We know chances are that trade could drop.
So People’s Vote, your chance to show you care,
So People’s Vote, a second vital chance.
Propects slim for border ‘sans despair’?
Prospects slim for Brexit cash advance?
So take a democratic second look,
Use People’s Vote to take back what’s been took.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 61 – ‘Our English Saintéd George’
On this day for our English Saintéd George,
Are you proud of what we have become?
Proud of reputation now abroad,
Proud of extraction process now begun?
This Shakespeare day, these happy breed of men,
Who took our sense of English pride and lied,
To distort and reconfigure it again,
Into horrid Brexit, trite and snide.
So release our throats from dragon’s powerful grip.
Fear not that fiery breath that billows hot,
From flaréd nostrils, nor teeth with razor tip.
For England’s ‘Jerusalem’ future – this is not.
So use a saint from ‘foreign’ lands we stole,
To fight and restore our European role.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 62 – ‘Peerage Gowns of Gold’
A Lord I thought I’d never ever be,
No country pile, no public school of note,
No London club, or Lord of MCC,
No fancy robes or castle boasting moat.
Besides, I’d disagree and duels I’d fight,
Across my red etched lines of lasting truth.
My soup I’d slurp and misaddress Sir Knight,
I’d fail to shave and utter oaths uncouth.
But wait, The Lords are speaking sense at last.
They divide with wisdom, sense and reasoned thought,
So sadly lacking from that Commons caste,
Senseless now, by brainless Brexit brought.
So sign me up for peerage gowns of gold,
Till on Brexit, doth the page of history fold.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 63 – ‘So Rush This Wind’
We’re good at moving people round the world,
To suit our own design; to nurse our sick,
To cut our cane, to fight for flag unfurled,
To drive our bus and lay our building brick.
So for years and years they work so hard,
We thank them, (tax them) – Oh so very much.
Now off you go, we’ll play the migrant card,
And kick you out so families just lose touch.
What future wrongs along these lines of red,
Will Brexit bring with closéd hearts and minds?
A Nation’s shame, our lifeblood truly bled,
Of love and talents from those of diverse kinds.
So rush this wind of thoughtless ills and woes,
Ship it out, with Empire’s deathly throes.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 64 – ‘These Buds of May’
So will it be a set-piece play of power,
That brings us back to land of common sense?
Or will a tiny trip at final hour,
Rid us all of Brexit’s foul pretence?
For Windrush, Analytics and the like,
Have cycled by on tandems in their hoards.
We’ve seen the bus-side lies, the tragic spike
Of caring jobs now lost on nursing wards.
The Brexit diesel now fuels our final flight,
To loss and grief for what we had, now died.
And trade deals slip like lovers in the night,
From silken sheets and chastened, homeward stride.
It’ll end with whimper, bang or cross in box,
These Buds of May, these poisoned toxic crops.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 65 – ‘The Asking of a Visa Fee’
What do you expect; you’ve left the bloody club,
The doors have shut with sullen bang behind you.
The asking of a visa fee’s no snub,
No slight on those with passports coloured blue.
You’re on your own, so get a firmer grip,
Just the start of living on your own.
So every time you take a foreign trip,
Alone you’ll be in foreign Euro Zone.
Odds on we’ll levy just the blooming same,
And trade costs raise with tariffs like as not.
It’s just a stupid, silly, pointless game,
It’s one that costs us all, this Brexit plot.
So dig in deep to pay the extra cost,
Or Brexit ditch in longest grass, to be forever lost.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 66 – ‘Was it Purely Chance?’
Should I write on the name that’s just be given
To a right royal price now fifth in line?
It’s tempting and I’m resisting being driven,
To talk of Louis at this Brexit time.
I must resist, like our friends in France,
To write some lines that could be viewed as cheap.
But what a name, was it purely chance,
That this royal choice would make dear Brexit weep?
So I will just not pen a line or word,
To mark this very special name of note.
I’ll just pretend I haven’t really heard,
And Remain right here and allow myself to gloat.
I’m so glad that not one line did I jot,
For this has upset our Brexit friends …. A lot!
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 67 – ‘Lights not Amber’
I can’t get too worked up, for what may come,
In normal times it would be such a deal.
A high ranked queen, now looking rather glum,
Lights not Amber, but ruddy red I feel.
A remnant of Remain she now may claim,
To arouse our listening sympathetic ear.
But crimes of unspeakable uselessness remain,
For which she must atone alone I fear.
So Brexit’s wind doth rush through those inept,
Those who can not command the detailed word.
Those, who sheep like follow, blindly swept,
Into hollow lies, and truths by money blurred.
So tax me not; this fall, this crumbled cake,
For collapse of all around, I patient wait.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 68 – ‘This Silence’
Home Office now in turmoil goes the phrase,
A new broom sweeping clean or same old same old?
With targets drawn and bowstrings taut and raised,
For May’s outrageous fortune, lies were told.
Now body blow has removed this human shield.
But those that hid behind the lies and guff,
Kept silent as the words were first revealed;
Hoping one minister sacrificed would be enough?
This silence tells you all you need to know.
…‘Let’s talk instead of shoes and ships and things,
And how our cabbage plants and weeds do grow,
And sealing wax on names for future kings.
In fact, any damn subject now is best,
Till ‘Brexit Windrush’, is laid to blesséd rest.’…
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 69 – ‘Stand the stand my party chose’
“So where do I get these super powerful shoes,
For that strong and stable stance of power?
Just perfect for the televisual news,
Just perfect for that happy press filled hour.
My friends do tell me it’s quite absurd this pose,
But my party tell me it’s quite the thing to do.
So let me stand the stand my party chose,
My Party before my friends (and country too!)
To strike this pose, I find is quite a strain,
And to hold it there as all do look and stare.
I have no brain, it plays the party game,
I follow sheep like – splaying feet to scare.”
….So use not stance in polling booth this week,
Just cross out Brexit. Make their future bleak….
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 70 – ‘The Sugar in the Tea’
He said: ‘We are here because you were there,
You are the sugar, the sugar at the bottom
Of the English cup of tea’. So don’t despair,
We fight with you for justice not gone rotten.
He said: ‘We are here because you were there.’
You are the cream on that English tea time scone.
We fight with you for justice fair and square,
And from the weasel words – actions to be shown.
He said: ‘We are here because you were there.’
From rushing wind of callous spite and bile,
Blown up by Brexit plus shocking lack of care,
You’ve been ‘stablished guilty with no trial.
We are here, and from this we must retreat,
Our nation, our people’s lives …..no more to cheat.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 71 – ‘My Battered Can’
I have a battered can I gaily kick,
I kick it down this winding Brexit road.
It’s harmless fun, it makes the time go quick,
And contents drained, it surely can’t explode.
So aimless is this silly game I play,
I kick it hard or soft or high or low.
It matters not where this game doth stray,
No better course of action do I know.
I have some snags, I’ll candidly admit,
But no solutions ‘cept my battered can.
So I chuck it down, kick it on a bit,
Anti-social pointless useless plan!
Perhaps it’s wrong to play this game of mine,
But I’m in charge… till next election time.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 72 – ‘The Black Death’
The Black Death is seems, is now to be a thing,
A party now aspires to claim the name.
What mirth and joy can careless comment bring?
Titanic joy! – seats not theirs to claim.
So bring out your dead, cart them down the street,
Ring that unclean bell to warn us all.
Bring on those fork tailed kites, their bones to eat,
To remind all how falsehoods rudely fall.
So ‘Danse Macabre’ around your party grave,
You’ll lay not dormant in this cold berth of earth.
No more to rise, no more to infect or plague
This troubled isle, with your calls of useless worth.
So blame not others for poisoning our well,
For hark what’s that? Your final tolling knell!
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 73 – ‘This tide doth shift’
So now we have it, a crazy customs thing,
Spoke by one, this ‘partnership’ now wrecked?
So cabinet consent, time doth not bring,
And Tory tribe – their leaving box not checked!
What hope have we to sell our custom wares,
If those who lead cannot agree a thing?
What hope have we of equal balanced shares,
If those who lead cannot consensus bring?
So like a war, that must be waged by all,
It’s time to ask what serves us best in this.
Not one party, nor the next can call,
A future that we all may love and kiss.
Hopeless, helpless Brexit cast adrift.
Will of people now, this tide doth shift.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 74 – ‘Europe Day’
Europe Day, a day to think aloud?
A day for thoughtful, peaceful contemplation?
More like a day to show we’re loud, and proud
Of Europe’s path of peaceful restoration.
The stars shine down this day in yellow splendour.
So pay no worship to the garish Sun,
Or to those Brexit fibs and lies surrender,
Or Deceptions tangled webs, now daily spun.
All these we put aside this day of joy.
An ode to freedoms dearly-won and held,
This passing Brexit wind will not destroy.
This music, this food of love, doth tightly weld.
So rip us not, we’re fused by love unbounded,
This day is ours; by friends and love surrounded.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 75 – ‘Two cans’
We had one can to kick down Brexit Lane,
One can, one cabinet, one unholy mess.
But now what’s that bouncing off the drain?
There’s two now, much more distracting I would guess?
Which half plays with what can, know I not,
Which half kicks it this way, know I neither.
How teams were picked,I cannot truly plot,
A balance of remainer with the leaver?
This game of clones should clot some Brexit fudge,
As stirrers mix it up in stainless kettle.
So onward, upward, downward does she trudge,
And graspeth not that Brexit poisoned nettle.
So kick both cans, embarrassed May you be.
Send them off, and of Brexit we’ll be free.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 76 – ‘The Berlin Process Summit’
You must have heard me laugh, from Notting Hill,
To London Bridge and on to Blackpool Tower.
My guffaws rattled pebbles on Selsey Bill,
And brought up short their hymns in Guiting Power.
My derisive hoots heard in Aberdeen.
My endless giggles heard in Giggleswick,
As they were in cuttings of East Cheam,
Or any other town you’d like to pick.
So what has caused this merry Maytime mirth?
The Berlin Process Summit we host here,
To convince the Western Balkans of EU’s worth.
To help them join Europe’s upper tier.
So role reversal gear now please engage,
And back us out from Brexit’s stagnant cage!
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 77 – ‘Holyrood’s Closéd Door’
Alba, let us hear you speak your word.
Rise now and be the nation sane,
The nation to send that hated Bill homeward,
To think again yes, tae think again.
Alba you own no debt, those days passed
When for others, you suffered death and pain.
Yer wee bit Hill an Glen, is yours at last,
An sent this hamewart, tae think again.
So Flower of Scotland, this bloom of Gaelic pride,
Offer no parley, stand on Arthur’s Seat,
And take not that Prood Brexit’s side.
Sent this hamewart, this useless bill defeat.
So I would walk five hundred miles, or more,
To watch this fall at Holyrood’s closéd door.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 78 – ‘Trample not this growth’
A gentle breeze; come second wind now blow,
And softly move the corn in fields afar.
Small nods to whispers grow, and talk doth flow
Of votes anew; the door now just ajar.
So People’s Vote doth rise from fresh tilled loam,
A bigger general crop May still yet snap.
Bend your back to bring this harvest home,
And falleth not for Brexit’s fallow trap.
So light the morn, and shine on summer heat,
And fall my dear soft rain, these crops to soak.
Trample not this growth with childlike feet,
Nor permit invasive weeds to spread and choke.
So like and share to aid this growing crop,
And from our future, Brexit quietly chop.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 79 – ‘As Right As Right Can Be’
This view from Surrey Heath is quite unique.
As right as right can be by all accounts.
From this ad vantage point, so to speak,
Their MP now from reasoned talk dismounts.
This view from Surrey Heath is quite absurd.
A cosy Brexit welcome now prepared,
New migrant love hath Brexit spawned and spurred,
And boosted liberalism – now so gladly shared!
This view from Surrey Heath is quite a treat.
What a prism through which to view the light,
No problem when you’re lodged in safest seat,
No problem when you utter comments trite.
Diminish and eclipse these views, these boro goves,
But beware the Jabberwock – and all slithy toads.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 80 – ‘Just call your EU Man!’
So now we have it, maximum facilitation,
Or our customs trusted trader scheme,
Is to cost no little aggregation,
In fact, more than did we ever dream.
Some twenty billion every year gone west,
So we can DIY our trading terms.
Now DIY is often just the best,
When fiscal doom and gloom tops your concerns.
But when the job’s just too damn hard for me,
And my cost at B&Q is just too great,
Drop I my plan and o’er cup of tea,
Decide to call my lifelong tradesman mate.
So sup your tea and drop this Brexit Plan,
Max Fac’s no good? Just call your EU man!
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 81 – ‘Will of the People’
Now who is this ‘Will’ of the people I dareth to ask,
I’ve never seen him, but mentioned oft is he.
Famed, but in no limelight doth he bask.
This ‘Will’ of the people; whom we never see.
From Warwickshire’s fields of green and gold come I,
So I know this ‘Will’, he dwellth here about.
His voice – the breeze. His words the skylarks cry.
And I know against this Brexit doth he shout.
Our ‘Will’ of the people tells of scuppered isle,
This right mess of things, this earth of misery,
He tells of our discontented winter while
England numbed by evil Brexit wizardry.
This is no parting of sweetest lovers sorrow.
Our Will, for hapless cause, dare not ye borrow.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 82 – ‘A Brexit Answer’
Why are those summer hols so very long?
Children burn those summer days so slow.
Well the reasoning here is O so strong,
To bring our harvest home, our fields to mow!
So a Brexit answer now stares us in the face,
As hols re-geared to weather yet again.
Our kids let out in vacant harvest space,
No migrant harvest workforce need we retain.
I note that erstwhile Ed Sec from Surrey Heath,
Did not to school year make a reasoned change.
Slightly odd, but he must have had belief,
That kids on hols over harvest fields would range.
So prisoners and school kids shout a loud hooray,
Your time has come, just greet that Brexit day.
©Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 83 – ‘The End of May’
The end of May now fast draws near its time,
The ‘display till’ date and ‘sell by’ date long gone.
A time of little reason and no rhyme,
A time of logic short and bluster long.
A few more days has May her path to tread,
The sun now almost set on time she’s had.
A few more days and May, her essence bled,
Will close this present chapter long and sad.
So kick your cans, pack up your bags and go.
This closure, this careering path to hell
Choseth you, to take us down below
To Brexit bind – where now we abject dwell.
So days to go and May will dim and close,
What cometh next? Speak thou whom future knows.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 84 – ‘English Exceptionalism’
Exceptionalism, no derision please don’t laugh,
We not the same in Albion’s perfidious land.
We’re not the same, we read our Daily Telegraph.
We expect an exception, it’s in our Brexit plan.
English exceptionalism, we deserve more not less,
The rules for us should be made to buckle and bend.
What applies to others, with that we’re not impressed,
We’re not like them, so rules you may extend.
We retain our rights but obligations drop,
We’re exceptional, so don’t delay our Brexit deal.
Insistence on petty rules must now stop,
To our exceptional demands, you must now kneel.
Our glorious, imperious past please keep in sight.
English Exceptionalism! It’s ours by ancient right.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 85 – ‘Sense and Reason – Now on Ration’
How English do you feel asks BBC,
Are you proud to call this Nation home?
Well through good and ill, I’ve roamed quite free,
Both waters flat and tempest’s roaring foam.
I’ve never paused; I’ve never had to think,
On question posed – of English sense of pride?
No need had I, my heart and mind in sync,
Unconscious, deep down, England was my guide.
My guide has stumbled late on lava flows.
Acrid smoke now chokes my once clear lungs.
My eyes now run, dust doth cake my clothes,
As Brexit speaks with Babel’s twisted tongues.
If need there be to ask of England’s passion,
We are lost! Sense and reason – now on ration.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 86 – ‘Our SW1 Time Machine’
Our SW1 Time Machine stands ready,
Its batteries charged, its time locks fully primed.
The time multiplying fields are holding steady,
The debates and votes now precisely timed.
So all is set, for twelve of your earthly hours,
To spend on business substantial, profound and vast.
What luck we have these ticking warping powers,
To quantitatively withdraw the time for Brexit task.
So hooray for this time travelling life we lead,
Hooray that we may conserve this beam of time.
This chamber green from temporal constraint, now freed,
One great machine, this avoidance tool of mine.
So no backfires, photon drives engage,
Time continuum warp and… Democracy enrage.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 87 – ‘Knuckles Not Yet White’
Hold your breath; we’re about to rock and roll.
The scene is set and roller-coaster primed.
This final act will show who hath control,
And those whom Brexit heights hath scaled and climbed.
Where goes this runaway train, know I not,
How high and wet the log flume, I cannot tell.
Now starts our ride, our queuing wait forgot.
Our straps are checked; we await that starting bell.
Our knuckles not yet white, we soon depart.
So sit back, hold tight and don’t forget to scream.
It’s at this point, just before the start,
I muse on competence, of ride creation team.
So hold on tight, await your safe return.
Let Brexit be a lesson, from which we all do learn.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 88 – ‘Avoid a Meltdown’
‘Let’s sub contract, this Brexit how-de-do,
Let’s find someone with guts and time to spare.
Someone with an unbiased worldly view,
Someone who’d prepare with utmost care.
A company voluntary arrangement we may arrange,
Or a PFI we could install.
Some backers, with deep pockets – they’re not so strange,
They’re lining up against our Eton Wall.
Best avoid a meltdown I should say,
We don’t want public panic to take a hold.
So pro bono publico must hold this day,
We know what’s best, by nanny we were told.’
What a farce, this Brexit counterpoint,
Where are the leaders we should now anoint?
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 89 – ‘A Promise’
A promise; which looks a likely U-Turn twist.
A promise; on which I would not stake my life.
Rebellious fever quelled and defeat just missed,
Meaningful vote now promised in Brexit strife.
I read ‘concessions’ have yet to be agreed,
I read ‘assurances’ have been handed down.
Is this from they, who practice to deceive,
And buy majority, to fool a trusting crown?
This twisting tourniquet of searing pointless pain,
Must shortly snap as cheques of trust are cashed.
This ponzi scheme of trust doth stress and strain,
As what is told to one – another’s promise trashed.
So talk is cheap, and whiles away the hour.
As country suffers, while Tories cling to power.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 90 – ‘She Teed You Up’
Feel let down? She teed you up of course,
This is par for Brexit’s dog leg game.
A promise made for a vote that you could force,
Has hit the rough and fore! you must exclaim.
I have no need to join your rebel round,
But curious I be, to see your homeward nine.
To see your round complete, your clubhouse found,
As close doth draw that Brexit tee off time.
So who now in Master’s jacket can be seen,
And who does grieve on council’s pitch and putt?
As crowds fall silent round the final green,
‘Told you so’, some are heard to tut.
From unplayable lie, hit it hard and low,
Trust not what you’re told, but what you damn well know.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 91 – ‘This Brexit Möbius Strip’
This Brexit Möbius strip has met its end,
One leaver has declared the plan a farce.
Remain he‘d rather; no chaos path descend,
From May‘s roasted offering, he‘d rather pass.
So weld these Brexit ends with electric arc,
Apply this unexpected superglue.
A plan, a vision not! but maybe spark,
To rid us from those without a flaming clue.
So could Remainers leave with measured step?
Could we leave if all was put in place?
This question ponder, do not answer yet,
Of unicorns arrived – not one trace.
Do I take it now we‘re quite agreed,
What foolishness began, he now doth cede?
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 92 – ‘Lie Line Technology’
I’ve seen the solution on Russian fields of green,
Goal Line Technology – I’m told it’s very neat.
The ball may be spinning fast across the screen,
But know ye now, if the line’s been beat.
Can’t we have similar in marbled halls of state,
And see those spinning Brexit claims replayed?
An LLT test – by Commons exit gate.
For Lie Line Technology – hallelujah! We are saved!
Screens now set on College Green to view,
With LLT, not GLT deployed.
As words of Brexit drip from lips untrue,
Our LLT shows both the null and void.
No longer left in doubt or disbelief,
Our LLT, our round the clock relief!
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 93 – ‘By These Small Margins’
Not such sweet sixteen; this vote just missed,
Another back room deal now shuffled out.
Today no brighter future shall be kissed,
As against his own reform did rebel shout!
Six rebels sidled up and filed right for aye,
Four rebelled against that Labour whip.
By these small margins – we our future buy,
The past now gone as Brexit tap doth drip.
Our dam now plugged by globs of unsafe trust,
The stress cracks streaking down its unsafe wall.
Will it hold? No – crack and burst it must,
For that that’s built on shifting sands must fall.
It’s close today, gripe no gripe, don’t moan.
The chance to wave Brexit bye, not yet blown.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 94 – ‘No Idle Threat’
So this is credible, this is now the news,
This is not some abstract theory posed.
Some fourteen thousand Airbus jobs to lose,
And more if Oxford’s Mini plant doth close.
How many working at all these plants did vote,
For Brexit’s promise, so simply put but fake?
A con, a trick, a knife to Nation’s throat.
Lives put at risk for nothing; good jobs at stake.
A dread now spreads across our worried land,
Whose job will beast of Brexit next consume?
No idle threat, no fear unjustly fanned,
But cold hard facts; this bandwidth of our doom.
So listen hard and listen long to this,
For jobs once gone, forever will be missed.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 95 – ‘Two Words’
I’ve words aplenty for my mouth to choose,
I’m spoilt for choice, there’s quite a few I know.
So words with letters four, I’d rather lose,
I can aim high, why sink so very low?
But latest from our mop haired cabinet clown;
Tells business where to go in Brexit’s play.
An exit, by verb instructed, no proper noun –
‘Please depart and take your jobs away’.
When he doth speak, his words do set the tone.
These two words, now out, will not return,
They’ll not go back, they’ll be forever known;
Two words that launched a business crash and burn.
So take your ‘bog roll’ you silly stupid fool,
And wipe up this awful mess your words now fuel.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 96 – ‘This Stinking Rotten Deal’
Just a list of deep despairing damage,
Just some gone or going or in distress.
Mini and Rolls and Royce both Beemer managed,
Investments in our motowns, quite a mess.
Nurses leave never to return,
Midwives much the same, numbers shed.
Doctors Brexit exodus now we learn,
EMA bound for Holland now instead.
Erasmus and Galileo wave goodbye,
Arresting Euro Warrant not for us,
Youthful classic artists from London fly,
Tax avoidance avoided with little fuss.
This rotting fruit that can’t be picked by hand,
This stinking rotten deal in Brexitland.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 97 – ‘A Careworn Pantomime’
Ms.K on BBC , her tongue just wagged,
‘Tensions revealed sometimes by tiny things’.
Could tiny things be Ireland’s border snag,
Or Gibraltar’s fate that curséd Brexit brings?
These are tiny things – just good fun,
As compared with cabinet rifts not closed.
Two years in and not one blueprint done,
Two years in and where we are….who knows?
So get them into Chequers one more time,
Bill it as a ‘make or break’….again.
This now looks a careworn pantomime,
This time with thirty members, O what pain!
Meantime, on Monday, talks begin afresh,
To cause our battered can yet more distress.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 98 – ‘Brexit Open Gardens’
It’s Brexit open gardens coming up,
The public will be lining up outside.
So it’s cake for all and British tea to sup,
But truth to tell, we’ve let the garden slide.
Our edges are quite ragged and ill defined,
Our borders hard and overlooked by all.
Our gardeners to pruning work – disinclined,
Weeds in our favoured beds grow thick and tall.
What will the people think when they look round,
We’ve got no plants of beauty to display.
We’ll bluff it out, and take their hard earned pound,
And take ‘em round this garden of decay.
It’s what they want, we had a damaged vote,
This Brexit garden, the lying weeds now choke.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 99 – ‘No Point In Going Out’
This tennis game’s quite tiresome for all involved,
Especially for the crowd, now bored and hot.
This no love game; no set hath been resolved.
From Deuce to Advantage doth this Brexit trot.
What started off with new balls full of bounce,
Is marred by moving tramlines squeezing play.
Hawkeye’s died, decisions not announced,
Whilst from the baseline, no ideas now stray.
So boring game; get them off the court.
This weather may not last, please serve the best.
Value we want – these tickets we have bought!
We need a match, not this slugging fest.
Match point will come, have no remaining doubt.
Our ball stays in, no point in going out.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 100 – ‘Wrong must ne’er dismiss the right’
I’ve scored my hundredth Brexit Sonnet then,
I’m not yet out, still batting down this wicket.
Our team remains on track with wickets ten,
Whilst some remark, “Old boy, this isn’t cricket”.
The notion we should not take up our guard?
The idea we must declare our loss right now?
Just silly points, wide by half a yard,
We’ll follow on, and forward we will plough.
The boundaries move as overs come and go,
The ball gets polished; tampered some would cry.
Could be run outs – but fielders overthrow,
And extras come in useful bye the bye.
This testing Brexit match all played in white,
We’ll win… for wrong must ne’er dismiss the right.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 101 – ‘This Brexit Tripe’
Let’s take some time to work out where we are.
 No-deal follows on from no good plan,
 Shipborne convoys chartered from afar,
 WTO now sucked down swirling pan,
 Leaving cheats ‘political’ – hence ignore,
 Food delays – our all day Brexit fare,
 Dyson’s current plans to make us poor,
 Protest march to London’s central square,
 A motorway erased from Sat Nav’s streets,
 Our 5 percentage border waits in dread,
 Factories close and plan their swift retreats,
 Plans to Brussels arrive not live, but dead.
No… let’s not take this time! – We have no need,
No more on this Brexit tripe shall we feed.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 102 – ‘Five Percent’
Our five percentage border waits in dread,
We’re almost there or so we’ve now been told.
Our five percentage border to Brexit wed,
It can’t be squared – with ‘Leave’ so falsely sold.
Our five percentage border now sits tight,
It’s not cross, not sore, nor moving very fast.
Our five percentage border wants what’s right,
For goods, for folk and cars to freely pass.
Our five percentage border cracks a smile,
It laughs as if some filthy joke’s been heard.
Our five percentage border moves not one mile,
Whilst red lines look now so very blurred.
This royal five percent, this sceptred isle,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this Ireland.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 103 – ‘This Ten Bob Brexit’
We expected (weakly) a three fifty million Brexit,
Writ large on a big red thing it was for us.
We expected control at entry points and exit,
Not much problem; why the blooming fuss?
Now the Ten Bob Brexit has appeared,
‘Friendship with all Nations’ – what a laugh!
A low value Brexit (as I always feared),
Please don’t mint this item on my behalf.
I will not collect or handle this stupid shrapnel,
Nor use it for my parking fees or sweets.
So take back this idea; please rethink and cancel,
I’ll find another coin to buy my treats.
Let’s mint the British Euro, a Friendship coin,
Let’s forget this Ten Bob Brexit – and just rejoin.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 104 – ‘A Present for my Birthday’
I was expecting a present for my birthday.
A Sagittarius (in case you couldn’t tell).
Mr. Raab did write it and did say,
‘That agreement talks were going rather well’.
My present; the final deal he would explain
To Hilary, at his selected committee meet.
On twenty one instant his input we would gain,
And my present, unwrapped, I would gleeful greet.
But alas! All has fallen on it’s bot,
A few hours of precious joy was I allowed
And then my present, which once was there, was not.
My birthday treat, enveloped by black cloud.
Aires Rams – born March the twenty nine,
Here’s hoping your present bombs – just like mine!
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 105 – ‘Stare in Disbelief’
Do we sit and stare in disbelief?
Do we sagely nod and say we knew?
Do we ask from Brexit, some relief?
Do we let justice find the story true?
I refer to latest bombshell storyline,
Of allegéd doubtful funds that were procured.
Whilst many react by saying; “About time”,
I can’t quite sleep till I see the truth secured.
So put this farce on hold and quietly wait.
Defuse this ticking bomb with fingers deft.
Tread not this potholed road to failéd state
And hold on tight, to little sense that’s left.
Should case be proved that funds were not legit,
Don’t Leave EU – this foulest Brexit quit.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 106 – ‘Bones in Store’
I can’t quite believe my blinking eyes,
I awake, and scarce can take it blooming in,
In black and white, a paper I despise,
Has let loose a shot and said that May did sin!
No trampled wheat this sorry tale of woe.
No flipping flip from Remain to Leave is this.
It’s a tale of holding back and saying No,
When homeland sec, a probe she did dismiss.
“Too explosive” is the phrase that’s used.
So buried away with the other bones in store,
Went this probe; the Nation’s rights abused,
And as we saw, May’s interests to the fore.
To those who do oppose, I don’t suppose,
You could please discover what she damn well knows?
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 107 – ‘How do I find Dover?’
“So how do I find this white cliffed port of Dover?
It seems to be not on my blasted map.
Those iconic cliffs, those bluebirds over,
Some war I think, (of which I’ve lost all track).
Have we no Channel bridge? I thought we had,
I’m sure Boris did say – I heard him tell.
It’s like a wall but flatter, and not as bad.
Still, let’s drive that tunnel, our goods to sell.
So drive through Essex to this magic port,
This garden of England green, this Red Rose county,
This God’s own county and Tories last resort.
How glad I am that I’m no Oxbridge townie.”
…Mr. Raab – just join the lorry queue,
South East from London – queuing just for you.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 108 – ‘No Buyers for This Exit Lease’
When I have ‘stuff’ that’s of no use to me,
I’ll flog it off on ebay or the like.
I’ll get a price a buyer can agree,
We’ll have a chat, and deal we both will strike.
I’ve scoured the ebay pages up and down,
I’ve checked my Facebook page, and Gumtree site,
But alas, Mrs. May of London town,
Has no ad for agreement or the like.
The door of Number Ten now needs a stop,
This thickly tome is suited for this strain.
As Brexit Secs rotate, and change and chop,
This door forever open, needs must remain.
So perhaps no buyers for this Exit lease,
Remain in Europe, this nonsense now must cease!
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 109 – ‘Trust the lady shod in leopard heels?’
Hands up those who’ve read it from front to back?
Hands up those who’ve grasped its every word?
Six hundred pages – length it doesn’t lack,
So is this cocktail shaken – well I’m not stirred.
I’m halfway through; I’ll take more precious time,
To skim to the bitter end, it scarce appeals.
Should this agreement our troubled Nation sign,
And trust the lady shod in leopard heels?
I read of transition with no fixéd end,
XX ? – What’s that I see in one three two?
Insert a ninety nine; support I’ll lend!
But in truth – this flaky deal I will eschew.
No Deal, No Brexit or Exit Lease of woe,
Give me the choice – I know where I will go.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 110 – ‘Thus ends the slowest movement’
Thus ends the slowest movement; this Valse Triste.
A melancholy pianissimo,
A mournful end to this part of bigger piece,
And now for final movement – Con fuoco tempo!
So clear your throat and button back your ears,
Expect more from this, our orchestral score.
Our programme promises Presto and joyous tears,
A triple f, the brass and drums will roar.
The strings will soar, majestic to the skies,
Our Cor Anglais and French Horn unite in song,
And all unite to dispel those fractured lies,
Of this sad cadence that’s just gone.
Our European movement does not die,
It’s ode to joyful joy we’ll proudly cry.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 111 – ‘So My Pilgrim’
Despotic rule now rises in our midst
And smothers out the unspoilt light.
The threat of oblivion, now a dagger’s twist,
Now a threat - that she doth gladly cite.
So My Pilgrim, would you valiant be?
Now beset around by dismal stories,
It's time for valour true, for us to see,
And for you to know - your strength the more is.
Hobgoblin and foul fiend will daunt your spirit,
Foul wind and weather and lions and giants you'll fight,
But let us not a future bleak inherit,
So constant be; take not to heels in fright.
Do not cave, nor crash your precious vote.
My Pilgrim, travel wisely; doubt do not emote.
©Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 112 – ‘Control,Alt, Delete This Indefinite Article’
Control, Alt, Delete this Brexit loop.
Not Fn, nor the CapsLock key,
Enter not, nor space bar or regroup.
For on Monday next, a ruling we shall see.
One day before our common house doth judge,
We’ll learn that Brexit reset can be keyed.
Our caché’s full of useless cookie fudge,
Our disk needs cleaning to regain our speed.
So do not paste special, nor left align’,
Do not insert, nor format paint the text.
Move not your margins, nor add new table line,
For this vote we wait, and ask what’s next?
So Control, Alt, Delete; surely must it be,
Trash this indefinite article – just set us free.
©Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 113 – ‘A Vote Gone Missing’
“Now where did I put that blasted, stupid, thing?
I had it as I stepped into the house.
Did I leave it with my key filled ring,
Or perhaps it’s gone with Phil, my faithful spouse?
Did I leave it on the hallway shelf,
Or in the car, secure in glove box locked?
Upstairs? - maybe I took it there myself,
My memory must be going - I’m truly shocked!
O think, O think, where did I visit last?
I must have been distracted by some act.
I’ve done the same in not so recent past,
I’ll have to tell a fib dressed up as fact.”
- Help Theresa find what she thinks is lost,
A vote gone missing, a Nation double crossed!
©Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 114 – ‘A Convenient Sideshow’
A Christmas gift for the Maidenhead MP,
A no con vote that’s doomed to fall and fail.
Numbers to add to those declared I cannot see,
Despite those who against her plan do rail.
Her moat will deepen, her boiling oil prepared,
New siege supplies - arrows freshly smelted.
The chain mail forged, no human effort spared
All leave’s been cancelled, all dissent now melted.
A convenient sideshow of little worth this con,
A worthless dance of the head of useless pins.
Nothing here to see, let’s move on,
And release ourselves from Brexit’s coming sins.
Once shot, this bolt ne'er shall be retrieved,
And into her lap, one year doth she receive.
©Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 115 – ‘The word I used was ‘nebulous’’
​
‘Did you find me smart and so well primed?
Did you call me prepared and meticulous?
Did you say my visit was well timed?’
No Theresa – The word I used was ‘nebulous’.
‘Do you find me engaging in my approach?
Did you comment on my ethics sedulous?
Did you say my team’s beyond reproach?’
No Theresa – The word I used was ‘nebulous’.
‘Would you say my persona has some presence?
Do you find me witty and quite garrulous?
Did you say my dancing’s rather pleasant?’
No Theresa – The word I used was ‘nebulous’.
‘So this is not focused… nor strong… nor even stable?
Oh dear – what sort of deal do now I table?’
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 116 – ‘For nothing now can come to any good’
It’s good to know that cabinet plans are made,
It’s good to know that all is put in place.
For ‘No Deal’ day our freedom do we trade,
For ‘No Deal’ day doth stare us in the face.
For around May’s table are skilful honest hands,
Who’ve steered the ship from referendum’s pier.
Such dexterous skill will make those no deal plans,
Run smooth as clockwork, smooth as Irish beer.
No deal was spied on Brexit voting slip,
To Leave or Remain, your only Brexit clue.
A ‘No Deal’ – what a democratic trip!
Managed for the many by the few.
So prepare your troops, spend what you think you should,
For nothing now can come to any good.
©Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 117 – ‘My Ice Cream Tub’
Brexit loudly shouts; ‘look behind you’.
Brexit things look like what they’re not.
Brexit stages things with tricks untrue.
Brexit plot line’s complete and total rot.
Yet this play, holds the nation fast,
All singing from the hymn sheet mounted high.
The audience, aided by members of the cast,
Are split; to sing their utmost do they try.
Sweets are thrown to keep us all awake,
Jokes recycled and unlikely stars ascend
The stage, to follow prompts that others make.
They play the fool, or horse’s rearward end.
Oh bring on the interval to this dismal show,
I ‘ll buy my ice cream tub and quietly …. go!
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet 118 - 'Are these the words to sooth a Nation's soul?’
​
What to think as my Queen talks from her chair?
Are these the words to sooth a Nation's soul,
Written by others, this conflict to repair,
This Brexit damage to limit and control?
Whilst her reason and logic may be sound,
Her government oversteps all reasoned marks.
Uneasy lies the head that has been crowned.
Where does advising end and lecturing start?
So draw breath for this short and pregnant pause,
No gold piano to sound a resolving chord,
No monarch's wisdom will settle this backstop clause.
No ladders - just snakes on this playing board.
So listen by all means to all who have a view;
Respect it, but fight for that which you hold true.
©Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 119 – ‘Bring on the Clowns’
So now our clowns are feeling quite annoyed!
Their endless toil to perfect their noble craft,
Their faultless teamwork successfully deployed,
An honourable trade – this art of looking daft.
Not like our parliamentary circus ring,
Full of broken whips and high wire fakes,
Not practised, nor rehearsed, this curséd thing,
A fool of all, this useless Brexit makes.
So misuse it not - this noble word of ‘clown’,
Nor use ‘circus’ as apologetic excuse,
For one profession mustn’t be taken down,
By another less skilled, less valued, less use.
Roll up, roll up this tattered Brexit trick,
Bin it Grimaldi, with final slap and stick.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 120 – ‘New Year Fireworks’
Thank you Euro friendly London Mayor,
For New Year fireworks upon our River Thames.
Your theme; how very apt and very fair.
Let's hope this New Year joy to all extends.
These fireworks just precede some more to come,
Sorry to say the coming year's not kind,
Nor happy, nor settled and when all is said and done,
Our blooming future could be hard to find.
So ohh and ahh at Sadiq’ s shooting stars
Celebrate that European spark,
Surround our lives with love, not prison bars,
Without these lights, our future’s awful dark.
Our blue touch paper - lit this coming year
Will set our fireworks fizzing, have no fear.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 121 – ‘Brexit Farm’
Remember ‘Four legs good, two legs bad’?
It’s in a thinish book by Eric Blair.
Look it up, it’s oh so very sad,
Such lofty dreams turned to bleak despair.
‘Four legs good, two legs better’ ends
Our parable of powerplay and its final rout.
‘My deal’s better than no deal’; Our PM extends
Her call to those who’ll listen, those who’ll shout.
Her Tory heartlands now reject her deal,
They’ve taken up the old old call they’ve heard -
‘No deal beats a bad deal’ they now do feel.
These meaningless shouts - absolutely absurd.
Drop your Shouting Brexit, your thoughtless chant,
And some sense into Brexit Farm, please plant.
©Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 122 - 'Tell us MP...'
​
Vote to make us poorer; go right ahead.
Lend your support to any hapless plan.
Ignore us voters - to the party you be wed,
And like the others, just kick their battered can.
No deal you'll bring upon us, so well done!
Our food, our medicines, our jobs; all at risk.
Tell us MP, as sense now ends its run,
Will you be proud to say you did persist?
Best open up your halls, let in the poor.
Heat up your stables and homeless welcome in.
For many more will fall to Brexit's claw,
Their futures tipped in Brexit's bitter bin.
On this cliff edge of broken Brexit dreams,
Ignore not Reason, nor Logic's warning screams.
© Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 123 - 'A Con, A Trick, A Swindle'
‘Thatcherism on steroids’; yes that’s what he said.
‘Sold a lie’ - this also left his lips.
His words delivered to kill this Brexit dead,
His star ascends, his leader’s to eclipse.
‘Let’s tell the truth to those who don’t agree.’
‘Show courage, do not appease’ he spoke aloud.
His words delivered to set our country free,
His star ascends, to threats and lies unbowed.
‘Our schools and colleges failed to give you skills.’
‘Blame us, blame Westminster’ – austerity’s spewing source.
His words delivered to free us from our ills,
His star ascends, to set us back on course.
‘Brexit is a con, a trick, a swindle.’
No more the Truth, with Brexit Lies should mingle.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 124 - 'We know not what we may be’
So is this a Pyrrhic victory we have won?
A chance to cheer, a smallish tear to weep?
It’s just May’s tragic deal; its race now run,
What options do those who wield the power now seek?
In truth, no hand doth grip our Nation’s tiller.
No consensus group doth yet appear
To wrest the weapons from this Brexit killer.
This reaching out, our PM doth most fear.
‘Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
A thousand twangling instruments’ and more besides
Will hum about mine ears; and ofttimes voices,
Saying - ‘We’ve more in common than divides.’
Dwell not on the present, this churning Brexit sea,
‘We know what we are, but know not what we may be.’
© Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 125 - 'No Man’s Land of Brexit Strife’
Here I lie in my shattered shell hole hell,
Mud seeps in, cold against my skin.
Rats scurry, inhaling that dense decaying smell;
Oh no man's land! - No prize, no pride, no win.
This land created by two opposing sides,
I'm trapped between the two, nowhere to go.
Will sense break out before I'm forced to rise,
And choice to make which wretched line to toe.
There's wire to cross whichever way I choose,
There's whizz bang bullets I'll have to dodge,
I'll pack up my troubles, what's left to lose?
Which way remains? That's where I wish to lodge.
Oh Lord, please help me choose a path for life,
No more this no man’s land of Brexit strife.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 126 - 'Plan A - A Dead Parrot’
Plan A is dead - e’s ex - this much we know.
And A, now longer nailéd to the tree
Is pushing up those daisies from deep below.
E’s kicked the bucket – from life an absentee,
No more, bereft of life, ceased to be.
A’s expired and gone to meet 'is maker!
But claimeth some – “A’s resting in e’s tree,
Just stunned and pining, this feathered mickey taker.”
What beautiful plumage some declare ‘A’ wears,
And bang its cage to make it chirp or talk.
But ‘A’ has joined the bleedin' choir upstairs,
And not just shagged out after one prolongéd squawk.
So Miss, I wish to register my complaint,
“A rests in peace but live ‘e truly ain’t.”
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 127 - 'I’m No Sucker’
You know what, I don’t really care what this Dyson crowd say,
They deny it’s not Brexit, but they’re off and away on their heels.
For they’re leaving these isles; they’re off and walking away!
They say - it’s ‘not for the tax’, or the fear of no deals.
Well I’m not buying this, nor their dryers or hoovers to boot.
I’m no sucker, no doormat, nor lover of bladed hot air.
I’m a lover of Britain; I’ll be staying what ere be the route.
Please abandon us not - treat Malmesbury and Bristol with care.
Your car of the future, you’ll shape and design not from here,
Not buildéd in Britain, but your billions you’ll spend in the East,
‘Future proof’ profit washed down with cold Tiger beer.
So nurture your ‘poster child’; you’ve behaved like a regular beast.
‘Just walk away’ was the Brexit advice you did say,
We’ll walk from your products. Your price we’re not willing to pay.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 128 - 'Brexit’s Rotten Shadow’
The sun's just there in darkening evening skies,
Edging those leaden clouds with vibrant hue.
These skies tell much of where our future lies,
No silent night - just worries to accrue.
Rush homeward, comfort to embrace and share,
Whilst fading orb of sunlight breaths its last.
A crackling fire, a drink, your favourite chair,
Whilst Life - from you and yours, no more doth ask.
So, shut all down, and prepare for Brexit night,
Pray your bedtime prayers, lock all your locks.
Your fondest goodnight wishes please now recite,
And defy that ticking tock of useless clocks.
For in the morn our sun will rise at last,
Brexit’s shadow? - no longer his to cast.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 129 - 'This Martial Blitz’
I wake this morning to a headline I scarce believe,
Martial law preparedness is now the thing.
“Just a precaution, order to retrieve,
Don’t fret or sweat, nor alarmist bell do ring.”
This ‘no deal/no win’ cluster bomb’s been thrown,
So open up to receive this random load.
By whom, for whom, ‘tis not so widely known,
This hand hidden, and not so widely showed.
So where’s my shelter to avoid this martial blitz,
Where’s my foxhole; some Facebook underground?
Where’s my country this Brexit cruelly splits,
And where’s the logic in all this to be found?
Martial siren calls do tempt the weak,
But silence not brave souls their truth to speak.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 130 - ' This Danegeld Bribe'
“I’ll splash some cash and spread it round about.
Just enough to make them change their vote,
Just enough to sow that seed of doubt,
Just enough my Brexit plan to float.
I’ll shake my tree; you know the one I mean.
The one I keep for dark days such as these,
The one I hide, from public view unseen,
The one I shook for a billion Irish leaves.
It’s just so easy and cuts out hours of talk.
As wallets lead - so hearts and minds do follow,
As protest runs - this slows it to a walk,
As lies are told - it makes them smooth to swallow.”
Reinforce your barricades, don’t give way.
This Danegeld bribe - Brexit must not pay.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 131 – ‘The Brexit Dimmer Switch’
Non-return valves in our ports have sprouted,
Look around at Dover and the like.
Control valves at our borders Brexit touted,
Now his promise just takes the blooming mike.
Goods gush in in unrestricted bliss,
And not just goods, we might now observe.
Goods drip out with Brexit’s tariff kiss,
Leave’s control of borders looks quite absurd.
Another day of transportation fun,
No movement, free or otherwise, do I detect.
Promises broken by the metric tonne,
And open borders as lorries flow unchecked.
This Brexit is a non-returning game.
Ditch the Brexit dimmer switch – Remain!
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 132 – ‘Where Is This Special Place in Hell?’
Where is this special place, this place in hell,
For those who have no sketchy plan to show?
For those their earthly Brexit souls do sell,
For those whose untrue claims no limits know?
I’ve pondered same since Brexit’s lies were sold,
But now the search is on to find this place.
It’s not the darkest spot, for that I’m told,
Belongs to neutrals, not moved by moral case.
Then hottest is has to be; scorching coals,
You know the drill - pitchforked tossed and grilled!
But foreign condemnation of English souls?
A shock for those with Brexit passion filled.
Soon the trumpet sounds for judgment day,
Come not this Brexit hell I hope and pray.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 133 – ‘My Language Store Remains’
Can this be? My wordy store looks bare,
I've been a little profligate of late,
And used a lot on Facebook to be fair.
But prepare I must for Brexit’s blindest date.
I'll get more in, stockpile if you will,
Some verbs and nouns and juicy homonyms,
Come metaphors, stack upon my window sill.
Adjectives! Come inhabit my storage bins.
For I will need more as Brexit drama plays,
I can't run low for imports will be sparse,
And ‘foreign’ words may have numbered days
As Brexit drama turns to Whitehall farce.
Whate'er the course we’re forced to choose or take,
My language store Remains, and will not break!
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 134 – ‘Your Lonely Furrow Plough’
“Come on, concentrate, let’s get all this done.
Let’s put these crazy folk behind some wire,
For this war we fight must be won,
To reach the goal to which we do aspire.”
…Hold these thoughts, these crazy Empire notions,
For mankind dies if these ‘solutions’ tried.
Safe they weren’t! Just going through the motions,
That slippery slope - we began to slide.
In Glasgow tenements, Death stalked his prey alone
And chose the weak, the sick and blighted poor.
But on the veldt, a helping hand was shown;
Death - free rein gifted o’er imprisoned Boer.
Talk not your dispassionate calm excuses now,
If these your thoughts – your lonely furrow plough.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 135 – ‘This Centre Land’
Come fill this aching gap, this monstrous void,
This space where dormant lay our seeds of hope.
Come see this stagnant status quo destroyed,
This gulf must fill with common sense, well spoke.
Come more, to lay your hands upon the pump,
This unexpected sinkhole must be filled.
Come, this mendacious masquerade now dump,
This Brexit drop and brighter future build.
Come independent thinkers, shake your fist,
This holding back, this lying low must cease.
Come, let not this fateful chance be missed,
This number in the centre - please increase.
Sit not there, but where you’d like to be.
This centre land must grow and set us free.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 136 – ‘A People’s Vote Doth Come’
Look it comes, a People’s vote doth come,
It’s true, so praise this opposition move!
At last it’s here, Brexit’s on the run,
Absconder from our Nation – I approve!
Let not my hopes build yet too wide or high,
For again, this tide could turn upon the rocks,
And crash with calculated fib and lie,
As our hapless leader, all logic blocks.
So join up all you diverse odds and ends,
Take strength from this, this slow-burn firework lit.
We’re not there yet, but People’s Vote has friends
And Brexit bad deal no deal, please omit.
Just please ensure, I now insistent ask,
A remaining choice, my People’s vote to cast.
© Keith Murphy
​
​
The Kindle eBook, just
£2.99 for all The Sonnets
Brexit Sonnet No. 137 – ‘For The Want of a Pallet’
For the want of a pallet, my shipment will be stopped and returned.
For the want of my shipment, my account will be suspended and lost,
For the want of an account, my business will crash and be burned,
For the want of my business, employees will be counting the cost.
So WTO and No Deal away if you will,
This unpalatable truth; we can’t just misplace or mislay.
How can you coat this particular Brexity pill?
Lift up the carpet and sweep it quietly away?
Take not these teetering steps on this Brexit cliff top,
Don’t slide off the end as you take in the view from the peak.
For a fall - if you meant it or not, is a fall you can’t stop,
And who can predict what more havoc Brexit will wreak?
Load your pallets with paint and spell out a colourful sign;
‘Keep away from this edge, and also from Brexit resign!’
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 138 – ‘Grayling’s Prayer’
“O Lord, let me make mistakes or slips,
For that’s my nurture, nature and my way.
O Lord, ensure that my chartered Seaborne ships
Don’t get me sacked, my cabinet post to pay.
O Lord, I pray that no one’s counting gaffes,
For I have strayed across this line of late.
O Lord, correct my railway franchise maths,
And on Probation - shut that problem gate.
O Lord, I curse my given fishy name,
For this rhyme with failing, now the price I pay.
O Lord, must I carry all this blame,
For three and thirty million poured away?”
- My son, your pleas I hear and do respond,
For human shield, I wave my magic wand.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 139 – ‘1 Corinthians 12:14-26’
‘The body is not made of one part; but made of many.
If the body were an eye – how would it hear?’
Why choose this reading? She could have chosen any.
Why read this text? Its meaning not quite clear.
‘If the body were an ear, how would it smell?’
Well just terrible – (we must honest speak!)
Why choose this reading? It didn’t go so well.
Why read this text? Its references oblique.
‘If one part suffers, all parts suffer same,
Parts can’t say to others; “I don’t need you”.
If one part’s honoured, every part doth gain,
There should be no division running through.’
Now meaning’s clear from reading read on high,
We’re best together - this Brexit now don’t try.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 140 – ‘Your Brexit Penny’
O how easy, to stand at side-lines carping,
O how easy, to point out this and that,
O how easy, to direct the car that’s parking,
O how easy, to dismiss it all as childish chat.
Truth be told, we’d do about the same,
Truth be told, we’d hesitate when lost,
Truth be told, we’d behave with equal shame,
Truth be told, we’d freeze with Brexit’s frost.
A few exceptions behaved with grace and style,
A few exceptions spoke some truth and sense,
A few exceptions displayed not deceitful guile,
A few exceptions committed no offence.
Who were these very few amongst the many?
…Depends on how you placed your Brexit penny.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 141 – ‘Our Speaker now hath ruled’
​
Our Speaker now hath ruled with final word,
And different does mean different now we learn.
For three or more times seems really quite absurd,
And no more Brexit time will May’s deal burn.
A stand now made against this abusive power;
This breaking, bending Brexit now to shift.
This could well be our Nation’s finest hour,
If storm clouds over Europe now we lift.
Ding dong, the wicked deal is dead,
So bring it not to these commons benches green,
Bury it at sea for all who’ve been misled,
For all who’ve lost at Brexit’s slot machine.
Now raise the standard and People’s Marchers stream
Through streets of London - in your millions teem.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 142 – ‘Place your feet soft on London streets’
​
So place your feet soft on London streets,
And proclaim your precious message loud and clear.
For march you not as democratic cheats,
But to let those fooled and hoaxed, your voices hear.
Bind your wills together with every pace,
For voices must be heard now times have changed.
Disregard all hatred ‘twixt creed and race,
Brexit’s stride too long o’er this has ranged.
No trial of strength is this, no frivolous fun,
No march of anger, no festive act of joy.
But an act of love for country now undone,
And recovery of that, which Brexit would destroy.
Let every step and every breath expended,
Be that glue that gets our Nation mended.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 143 – ‘Revoke We Can’
​
I like you have watched those numbers rise.
I like you have clicked on that green box.
I like you have May not on my side.
I like you ask what this unlocks.
How high can this our magic number go?
How high before it stops them in their tracks?
How high is needed for that fateful blow?
How high before this crazy mirror cracks?
Revoke we can, we should not be afraid.
Revoke we can, we have it in out gift.
Revoke we can, we should not be dismayed.
Revoke we can, we stop our Nation’s drift.
So sign it now to make the reasoned case,
And let’s put Art 50 firmly in his place.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 144 – ‘This Brexit wreckage - burnt and charred.’
​
I’ve had two years; but two days now remain.
I’ve agreed one deal; but now it all seems lost.
Those levers of power I’ve pulled and pushed in vain,
Those strings I’ve stretched or pulled, whate'er the cost,
None but none, have borne that Brexit fruit.
Now all control is gone; I’ve lost this trick,
My arguments now, just purely legal moot,
My can now thrown away, no more to kick.
So two days left, and now we sit and jaw,
Of cabbages and kings and why the sea is hot.
Mayhap too late to cease this Brexit war?
An earlier start was needed, I did it not...
So with regret, and stubborn disregard,
I bequeath this Brexit wreckage, burnt and charred.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 145 – ‘This Topsy Turvy World’
In calmer times I’ve heard some leaders say:
‘You must now back me, or else I will resign.’
But now to keep the Brexit wolves at bay
She says she’ll go; just back her grand design.
This topsy turvy world of downside up,
This one-way street with contra-flowing cars,
This inside out, this saucer with no cup,
This paradox, this prison with no bars.
But just observe as seagulls flock behind,
To pick this bounty from her promised move.
What once seemed wrong, to that they’re now inclined,
When once they scoffed; behold they now approve!
Sense and logic have lost their reasoned place,
Now lost to Brexit’s self-serving cold embrace.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 146 – ‘The Day That Never Came’
​
This is now the day that never came,
The day that promised much, and more besides.
A day of dreams we’d not remain the same,
And where more unites us than divides.
But fantastical fibs meant not a blooming thing,
And now the stage is set, rehearsals done,
And actors to their words and notes do cling.
Whilst critics to their chattering columns run.
So on this day that never went to plan,
Reflect, revoking all you’ve heard and seen,
And push this day along as best you can;
Brexit - live not your special hellish dream.
On this day, and all the days to come,
Deal not in halves or holes – remain as one.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 147 – ‘Brexit doth eat our PMs’
​
Brexit doth eat our PMs, or so I’m told.
Place in oven and bake at Regulo six.
Product should be steaming hot, not cold.
Just crack the shell and stir into the mix.
‘For starters we’ll have a Maggie, waiter please.
Brixton Boy looks good for mains I’d say.
For pud, ah… Eton Mess or cheese?
Eton mess please – David, on your way!’
Drinks sir? – ‘Some wine, but please no foreign beers,
Something with a hint of bitterness I think,
Something that’s been lying for quite some years,
Something acidic, I’d like to pour and drink.’
I’ve just the thing sir, to you this will appeal,
Côtes du May, and please enjoy your meal.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 148 – ‘A Backstop That Doth Suit’
​
I’ve finally found a backstop that doth suit me,
It’s made to measure, and fits me like a glove.
This piece of law, a legal guarantee
Was passed by one - and that we have to love!
‘No Deal’ lost its day, that’s all it took.
So if ‘No Deal’ on cliff edge do we spy,
This ‘No Deal’ leave, we’ll have to overlook,
And our luck with proper extension must we try.
So Cooper Letwin, take a modest bow.
This disaster movie you’ve now stopped.
I less now mop my fevered Brexit brow,
For ‘No Deal’ choice has just been dropped.
Oh, and while you’re at it Jeremy mate,
One Confirming Vote please now create!
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 149 – ‘Our House Has Leaked’
​
Our House has leaked before from time to time,
We know it happens, we've seen it all before.
But this is different; no secret paper crime,
No tip off, no share of words across the floor.
This leak was real and found its watery path,
Through the roof to the seats of green below.
So rain stopped play – they took an early bath,
The torrents of wrath these Brexit gods bestow!
So can a Plumber now be found in haste?
I’m told they may be extremely rare just now.
How about a builder to remove the waste?
What a shambles; Brexit take your bow.
And now I read it’s a Uri Geller spell,
Take it from me, this Brexit won’t end well!
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 150 – ‘This Astronomical Brexit Sin’
​
This winding road, this Brexit path we tread,
This Brexit one-way street with contra-flow,
What’s its name, this Motorway of dread?
What’s our terminus, does anybody know?
Well now I’ve found it, the M87 is its name,
It’s long - 50 million light years long,
And living at the end, so goes the claim,
Resides a hole into which we’ll fall headlong.
We must be on this road, for time distorts,
And this we surely know to be the case
For March is now October by all reports,
And so, no more time must we waste.
Turn this round, be not suckered in,
Commit no astronomical Brexit sin.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 151 ‘What Comes Next? ’
Now we wonder, wonder what comes next,
This quietness, this disturbing silent stand,
No script can I find for this, nor no text
To follow in this uncharted Brexit land.
So focus, fix your eyes upon the goal,
Those European votes, the end of May.
Don’t stay quiet, use this proxy poll
To show this curse one infinite delay.
For now, with ample time to look and stare,
This time is dangerous, this time we spend alone,
Whilst others can chart and plan a course with care,
From reasoned senses hath Blighty Britain flown.
We lack the dramas now of recent days,
So just beware of deceitful Brexit’s ways.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 152 – ‘Wake Up!’
A sleeping teenager; that’s what we are now.
No amount of shaking, no alarm,
No unholy goddam shrieking row,
Can wake us, or shake us from this Brexit harm.
Wake-up call arrives and on we plough,
Rapidly moving eyes, but blind to all,
Blind to all but dreams our brains allow
And blind to trips that cause the fatal fall.
To sleep, perchance to dream- ay, there's the rub.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come?
What dreams, what hopes destroyed by Brexit’s snub,
To what somnolent fantasises do we now succumb?
So put aside this teenage life of sleep,
Wake up! And your appointed future keep.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 153 – ‘This My Truth’
Dare I tell you how to cast your vote?
Is this too far forward for you to bear?
‘This is most presumptuous’, I hear you quote,
‘This is private business, not yours to share’.
Well I agree… mostly…, with what you say,
Private business in private voting booth,
What’s yours is yours, and I should stay away.
But please, just this once I’ll share my truth.
This my truth; Get dangerous Brexit out,
This my truth; Brexit makes no sense,
This my truth; Stop Brexit’s lying shout,
This my truth; No sitting on the fence.
Whoever tells of Brexit’s fast demise,
Please have my vote - till bleakest Brexit dies.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 154 – ‘No More I Write’
Now I exit left, pursued by bear,
My words used up, and run from this I must.
What's done is done; I know not how we’ll fare,
But nothing will come of nothing, and in this I trust.
We know what we are, but know not what we may be,
As I await this be-all and the end-all,
Will this end well by closure of Act III,
Or will we drown in Tempest’s ugly squall?
So, no more I write. This scuppered isle
Will wait for Sonnets on another day.
With inky blots, I’ve reached this waymarked mile,
My pen now still; doth not my thoughts betray.
But if this curse of Brexit comes not to pass,
Just one more Sonnet from my muse I’ll ask.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 155 – ‘United’
​
I was to wait, perchance to dream my dream,
To write no more on this scuppered isle of shame,
‘Til Remainers lined up, in one United team
And rid our country of Brexit’s blighted game.
But this election-tide has washed ashore
Flotsam and jetsam of Party’s static rules,
And no thoughts on the bigger prize to score.
With split votes to come – we’re all now knaves or fools.
Alas poor Warwick, where be your votes now?
Whilst Stratford’s timber frames and boards now creek,
As unifying forces disappear beneath that plough
That scythes the growth of hope Remainers seek.
Without the stand of one united voice,
The many do give the few their toxic choice.
© Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No. 156 – ‘I voted Tory, Keep Quiet – Not a sound!’
Oh hurrah! I’ve crossed my little box!
It’ll all get done and I can let it go.
I can breathe again and with no more shocks,
No threat to life from JC’s far left show.
And there’s more besides – I’ll pay less tax
And won’t be needing to make that vote again.
For ten years now I’ll switch off, just relax
And discount those who think not quite the same.
I’ll up the BUPA subs by just a bit,
I’ll do a little good with foodbank gifts.
I’ll say goodbye to those who do not fit,
And celebrate with bluebirds atop our cliffs.
But breath not a word to those around,
I voted Tory, keep quiet – not a sound!
© Keith Murphy
​
Brexit Sonnet No. 157 – ‘The Union Flag’
I recall my lessons on the Union flag,
Together; Patrick, David, Andrew and George,
Fly it right and treat it not as rag.
These bonds of Union troubled times did forge.
But trouble times have reached these shores again,
And relief I felt when Andrew said he’d stay.
But now my mind, it feeleth not the same,
And little George with Andrew should not play.
For Andrew’s voice is loud and can’t be missed,
To another Union he’s pledged his solemn word.
And who can blame him – his truth don’t twist.
So think again small George - don’t be absurd.
And Patrick’s mind is much the same I fear,
Get Brexit Done? My Union flag will disappear
© Keith Murphy
​