A Remainer’s Lament

 

We know that we shall meet our fate
Sometime next year if all goes ill;
Those with the most have least to fear
Those who have least must pay the bill;
Our country is the whole UK,
That soon, I fear, will 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 surly crowds;
A Tory impulse to deceive
Drove to this cliff edge in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The words to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the words behind
When sense itself draws near to death.