No-one knows what they want
Except for those of us
Who hope, more in vain than despair,
That Spain might invade Gibraltar
And the whole problem would disappear
In the foggy fever of war.
And what's been revealed
From this monumental shart?
An imbecilic political elite,
Opposed by a wet paper bag
Against an undercurrent of bigotry
And mass neuronal redundance
The likes of which might justly cause
Brains to spontaneously combust in protest.
About as robust as an Italian road bridge,
May's knights of a three-legged table
Stand aghast, as Boris cackles,
Watching it teeter with the saw in hand,
And Juncker spanks May with the leg,
Cantankerously, deviant,
Tusk and all.
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