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 will pay the bill;
Our country is the whole UK,
That soon, perhaps, 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.