Go into the supermarket,
see the British pork.
See the British beef;
see they way they squawk.

In the summer, sun goes up,
then where does it go?
Hanging in the sky like a fookin’ UFO.

Now the rain it comes again,
making the weeds grow.
Even ducks in the Stour,
got no place to go.

Scratched out zebra-crossings
cause of Brexit Euro-nots.
Hot and cold, no in between,
just royal tabloid bots.

Along the paths,
well-travelled rats
scurry with no doubt.
But crackers cannot cross the road
with blind-spot roundabouts.

Pip! Pip!
So close and yet so far …


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