We know that we shall meet our fate
In March next year if all goes ill;
Those who have most have fed the hate;
Those who have least will pay the bill.
Our country is this whole UK,
That soon perhaps may be no more;
No likely end can bring it gain
Or leave it happier than before.
Nor sense nor reason bade us leave,
But posturing men and jeering crowds;
A Tory impulse to deceive
Drove to this cliff edge in the clouds.
I balance all, bring all to mind,
A parliament seem waste of breath
When leaders follow from behind
And sense itself draws close to death.