Saturday, 1 February 2020

Brexit Blues

Stop all the clocks, turn off your mobile phone,
Don’t let the damn thing ring out with a cheery tone,
Silence the TVs and with muffled drum
Bring out the ashes, let the mourners come.

What have we now but crumbs of bread;
All around us the same message, 'Hope is Dead'.
Hatred and fear have triumphed over precious love,
Lunacy and chaos working hand in glove.

What now our North, our South, our East and West?
Our working week and our Sunday rest?
Our noon, our midnight, our police, our NHS?
No respite is coming, just endless stress.

Their lies are upon us now; conning every one,
So shun the Mail and discard the Sun,
A sad fate awaits each and every neighbourhood;
& nothing now can ever come to any good.

--
Adapted in sorrow from W. H. Auden’s ‘Funeral Blues’.

No comments: