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