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