Just Like the Deal
or No Deal Exit Desolation Brexit Blues, Approximately
Now, they said she’d stab me with
a teaspoon,
certainly, the next time
I asked her to make love,
committing to some kind of crime:
but I don’t have to be that way
inclined.
If I’m tasting grit, then that
will be just fine.
I only wanted to bend knees to please her,
so I voted just to tease her.
And the doctor swore to me
he’d measure out the viagra,
but he took the last train to the
sea,
slipped tabs into deep blue
Niagra.
And I’m left holding flacid wood
too fake to even grab yah.
So, the leisure pool was full of
sharks,
like Saint Francis predicted at
the lido.
But they swam here from the
serpentine
with plastic teeth and white
tuxedo.
I’m not scared, practising my front
crawl;
as I’m swimming near the exit,
while flabby flunkies now slide
daily
down synthetic snakes to Brexit.
I see Saint George, backstroking
real low,
chewing on his mustard sandwich,
he’s sure to rise above them all,
tread water as he gets rich.
He says that if we go much
further,
we’re bound to catch some souls at Dover,
twist their balls and turn them
over.
Then the lawyer grinned and said,
‘as a rule, you know I’m out of
here’,
he hung his apron on the speaker’s
door,
alleged that his chambers only
were
the bedroom for his Tuscan whore.
The lord, his lady and her whip
tried to hold us back in vain,
but we crossed the lobby, caught
the ship,
bound for sunny Spain.
‘Hold it dear and let’s debate’,
said the sceptic monkey to his rooks.
‘There’s backbenchers changing
Euros
for a parliament of crooks’.
Well, the teacher she was the
master
of somehow imagining herself
as not being the mistress
of meeting someone else.
Her classroom now was so full of
spaces
where there just used to be
different crayoned coloured faces,
and if she couldn’t hear the tears
then she would fold away the
traces.
She loved empty desks whenever she
could
because if they weren’t made of
plastic,
then they’d be made of wood.
And the blackboard that used to
hear her talk
had turned white just to hide the
chalk.
Well, the priest hung on the beach.
He could feel his purple headed
mountains
but those pebbles were always out
of his reach.
His sermons plead for more
understanding,
and laws that might be less
demanding.
He loved his choir but they don’t
sing his tunes,
male voices that wobble out of key,
when he’s struck deep, in his room,
and judges might realise if only they
could see.
He wants to help me, interprets
the gospel,
takes my picture, but I’m just too sodding dull.
He'll settle for a stick of rock
when he can
and when he can’t feel like a woman,
then he’ll feel like a man.
‘And we’re all going to hell in a
handcart’,
said the foodbank to the grievers,
as she handed out sweet potato tart
to the leftover queue of leavers.
‘It’s the immigrants who are to
blame,
taking minimum wages, bringing
Spanish rain.
They work for nothing, take your
jobs,
smell of garlic, snort at your
yobs’.
So we’re melting down the
aeroplanes,
politicians playing musical chains
with landing gear instead of
brains.
She says we’re building more
runways,
and a ten volt electric fence,
but no one’s ever bloody coming,
no one with any bloody sense.
