So what’s the panic? What’s the fuss?
It’s all aboard the big red bus.
The brakes are shot but we don’t care
we’re heading off to God knows where.
It’s not as though we have a choice:
we must obey the people’s voice
‘cos 37 per cent agreed
a change of air is what we need.
The youngsters hover, hesitate
while pensioners decide their fate.
Some changed their minds and some are dead
but buckle up - full steam ahead.
Who ever could have prophesied
that we’d get taken for this ride?
The deal was done, the pup’s been sold,
‘cos we believed what we were told.
The gloves were off, the rules were bent
and who knows how much cash was spent?
The carcass of electoral rolls
was ripped apart by Russian trolls
who know that Facebook can reveal
just how you think, the way you feel.
The algorithms know how you tick
and help you choose which box to pick.
Jo Cox is dead, but this campaign
will stop for nothing – it’s insane.
Gove and Farage may disagree
but Leave plus Leave means victory.
We wonder, heading for the door
exactly what they voted for.
The NHS ? Invading Turks?
You need a fantasy that works.
The xenophobes want aliens out
so spread the hatred, stir the doubt.
The wards aren’t staffed, the fruit’s not picked
but at least they got migration licked.
It’s not far now, the cliff’s in sight;
we can’t slow down, so hold on tight.
It’s natural there’s teething pain –
some short-term loss for long-term gain -
so you might get these gloomy thoughts
of tailbacks at the channel ports,
stockpiling medicine, food stacked high.
bureaucracies that multiply
while business tries to look ahead;
the windscreen’s misted, lights are red.
We’ll need new laws – so many hours
to update Parliamentary powers.
The orchestras, the science teams,
the higher education schemes…
cosy collaboration, hey?
All that was cancelled yesterday.
Now that we’ve torn its limbs apart
the UK’s bleeding at the heart.
The Irish border’s still not done;
replay the Troubles, anyone?
Just stay or go - a simple bet;
who knew how complex this would get?
We’re heading for the cliff at speed
so now a driver’s all we need.
Cameron knew he’d got it right –
just win the vote, and then unite.
Fat chance. Now there’s no turning back,
the rats are fighting in the sack
but Davis, Johnson, Gove, Rees-Mogg
are frantic, blinded by the fog.
The lofty sneer, the scornful touch
but clear proposals? Not so much.
So May is left alone to wave
the tattered deal she’s trying to save
as, sliced to ribbons, see them sag -
the remnants of her Chequers flag.
The edge approaches, nearer now,
Can something save us? When? And how?
We watch, in growing disbelief
negotiations come to grief.
They’re making threats, they’re acting tough;
they work through bombast, bluster, bluff
like some beginners’ drama class
whose end result is total farce.
And then there’s Labour. Not a clue.
What do they want? What would they do?
The edge is near, we face the drop;
can nothing make this madness stop?
It’s hell on wheels, it’s rock and roll
so tell me – who took back control?