Both flecked with rust, they didn’t fetch much brass.
The British lion’s fucked off to some far field,
To dream nostalgic dreams in veldt-like grass.
It’s 2022: fried rat and tripe’s
The national dish; we’re fighting over scraps.
It’s slowly coming home to John Bull types
That Brexit Britain’s fifty shades of crap.
We’re out of Europe, crippled by the bill
And no-one wants to buy what we don’t make.
Britannia’s mangy lion is dreaming still
And crown and state dislike the word “mistake”.
The MayBot’s will be done: a grand event
To set the doubters’ doubting tongues to rest.
Pomp and glory: a statement of intent.
Something Victorian. A Britain-fest!
So roll up, folks, roll up. Come, one and all,
Help celebrate this septic isle’s story.
The latest chapter’s likely to appal,
Full of UKIP pricks and boorish Tories.
The main enclosure’s decked out to the max,
‘Made in Taiwan’ flags and Poundland bunting.
Here’s Nigel Farage clutching pint and fag.
What dozy git let that rotten —
Moving swiftly on, the Rees-Mogg tent is
Open for tea and monocle repairs.
A pale sideshow freak ex-‘The Apprentice’
Is spouting racist bilge, but no-one cares.
Theresa’s Big Top Circus fails to thrill,
The Johnson tent contains a floppy dick,
Folk stumble off the Gove Train looking ill
Or chuck away their fried rat, feeling sick.
Prince Harry’s due on soon. He’s followed by
A fly-past of the RAF’s last planes
(A huge formation V-sign in the sky)
And then a marching band unless it rains.
There’s more joy at a violent coup d’état
Or Christmas spent with turkeys while they’re plucked
Than this damp squib that’s Brexit’s last hurrah:
The Festival of Britain Now We’re Fucked.
© Neil Fulwood
Neil Fulwood lives and works in Nottingham. His poetry has been published in various journals, zines and anthologies. His debut collection No Avoiding It is published by Shoestring Press; he is currently working on volume two.