The whim of May has drowned in pots of honey,
And England’s every lamb and colt and calf
Basks in degrees twenty-two ’n’ a half,
Watching Helios with all his might aspire
To have the heating off in every single shire,
And good Britons on Margate’s shores assemble
A crispy pink marshmallow to resemble
- Of postings pics they never seem to tire,
Despite their known love for a single file;
When thirsty folk consume their pints galore
Exploring all the bars from Pole to Pole,
And weather forecasts become less random,
Then is the time to hold a referendum.
In all the counties’ all the nooks and crannies
Regiments of students, dads and grannies
All swarm like bees to seek the sacred urns
Reconquering the land of Hume and Burns.
Resentful of diktats on shape of eggs
They give their membership the prefix ex.
There goes a sage, there goes a boorish johnson,
Scholars and fools will all be there with knobs on.
Their little hearts ablaze to bounce the Czechs
Flutter with joy when they think of the tax
Staying at home to buy CAT-scans and pills
Syringes, stethoscopes and dental drills.
The judgement of Paris can’t bother them less,
The Angel of Berlin will cause them no stress.
They tick the right box asserting with glee:
No man is an island, but a nation can be.
Nincsenek megjegyzések:
Megjegyzés küldése