Great Brexit

Great Brexit

Britain, on the catafalque of lies before Europe,

who, sitting around the empty, rattling tumbrel,

whisper of the Thuggee garrote. Tighter.

Britain, to be interred in the mausoleum of Empire,

by those so minded of the glory days,

that they forget the way back.

Their misty ways, now so irresistible

to the dew-eyed, dyed-in-the-wool

old Englanders of the viceroy plumes.

The flag is at half-mast. Going up or down?

The last post or the reveille?

Never before has so much been ....