NO matter what vile and twisted fate befalls England following the General Election as it advances towards its Brexit apocalypse she has at least bequeathed to us an exquisite treasure trove of art and culture for us to remember her by. The literary output of Monkhouse, Morecambe and Cooper will endure for eternity to remind us of a merrier England while the melodies of Plant, Gillan and Kilmister recall a gentler and kinder time in her history. On this day in which England sets sail for a destiny unknown I’m happy to present to you a wee ode inspired by one of its lesser-known wordsmiths.
RIME OF THE ANCIENT BREXITEER
HOW a country having passed the point of no return was driven by scoundrels to the cold Country of Isolation towards a perpetual state of fear and loathing; and how from thence she made her course to the tropical Latitude of the Cayman Islands; and of the strange things that befell; and in what manner the Ancyent Brexiteer shunn’d reason and charity.
With apologies to the family and estate of Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)
It is an ancient Brexiteer,
And he stoppeth pork and brie.
With coupon puce and witt’ring lies,
Was e’er one posh’r than he?
For Eton’s doors were opened wide,
For his stout, anointed kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
‘Ne’er foreign chap ich bin’
His cane he held with skinny hand,
His lips seem’d drained of blood
His neck didst glint with brasso
And good folk yelled ‘What a fud!’
He holds you with his watery eye—
Like a Wedding-Guest all howlin’,
‘We mustn’t let the French forget
Or the Germans get their towels in’.
Oh Albion, oh land so fair
You once broke Hitler’s barrage
Why now permit the jackboots
Of Robinson and Farage?
Beloved green and pleasant land,
Now lonely as a cloud
Replacing truth and beauty
And kindness with a shroud
And now this ancient Brexiteer
Of England strong and stable
Did not thou preach of fealty
And reject the Tower of babel?
Was Dulce et Decorum est
Your Eton recitation?
Your pure Pro Patria Mori
A fanfare for this nation?
In Flanders fields the poppies bow
In sweet, silent adoration
A witness to the sacrifice
Of a golden generation
Drums beat slowly, fifes play lowly
Fields shine with poppies’ raiment
The deeds of heroes now betrayed
By Brexit’s shrill lament
We venerated Passchendale
And the sweet rebuke of Spitfires
Yet now forsake once loyal friends
In the flames of Brexit’s pyres
You hatched your lies and stratagems
Reviled Turks and NHS
In shady Caribbean havens,
Dark profits of the ERS
Then enter right your blond Messiah
Your bumbling Enfield gig’lo
This Central Office Pennywise
This concupiscent buff’lo
To make your dreams of av’rice fly
You poisoned those reviled
With tales of immigration
And xenophobic bile
The Ancient Brexiteer proceeds
And good folk peer beneath
This cursed brew; this toil and trouble
Of England’s Brexit heath
To slake your greedy, corp’rate donors
Your tax-shy acolytes
You beat a path from decency
And sacred human rights
In Scotia bides a canny breed
Still seeking bright redemption
They’re battle-harden’d to the fibs
Of Brexit’s spun deception
Those stubborn and rebellious Scots
Ne’er quite know when they’re beaten
At once both thrawn and faithful
And ever European
This land has been a haven
For immigrants and races
Providing truth and succour
In its bleak and pure, safe spaces
While England yearns to expedite
A boot to Europe’s jacksie
The Scots know well the Union’s dead
Enough! Let’s hail a taxi
It is an ancient Brexiteer
And he seeks a backstop greasy
By the light of Ulster’s bonfires
He conjured something sleazy
No depths exist he won’t descend
To quench the banker’s whim
No avenues go unexplored
In sev’ring Britain’s limb
He told those Lords ‘I won’t obey,
You’ll pay a price right heavy!’
Round Bercow’s chair his zealots throng’d
All howling with the bevvy
‘If families have to go without,
If stricken patients wither,
Twas European perfidy
That made me not deliver.
But listen not to those foul fiends
Don’t let your spirits sicken
In yonder sea a ship’s jam packed
With chlorinated chicken
In Africa where once we roamed
And oil-soaked southern Asia
We’ll build a trading company
And drain them at our pleasure
It is an ancient Brexiteer
Some thought him double-wide
Yet in his desiccated soul
A hard resolve did bide
‘The false accusers of Remain
May don their gilets-jeune
But never fear, I’ll smite them all,
With water-jets and guns’
And lo it came to pass indeed
That Britain rued her folly
Sold by Bullingdon’s elite
On a sea of vintage Bolly
Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
Round Britain’s neck was hung.
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