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

​

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

​

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

​

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

​

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

©Keith Murphy