There is no air of saintliness
About you.
Just a stench of arrant arrogance
And self aggrandizement.
Your smiles do not reach
Your gimlet eyes.
Your lies are the bed
Upon which you must lay.
Weakness and instability
Is what you have displayed.
Now hoping for a chaotic coalition
To save your day.
Your sycophantic allies
Are busy in their kitchens.
Sharpening their knives
To bring you just reward.
Those that trusted you
To bring them home.
Are now explaining unemployment
To their wives and families.
Will you accept responsibility?
Oh no! others heads shall roll.
While you sip from the bitter cup
Of the failure you created.
We are the laughing stock
Of Europe.
Soon you shall mutter
Et Tu Boris?
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
