Monday, 02 March 2020 12:58

Brexit Music

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in Poetry
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Brexit Music

Brexit Music 

(After Louis MacNeice)

by P. W. Bridgman

It’s no go the cavernous yawns, its no go sermons in Chinglish.
All we want is a Sunday jaunt to a bar where the barmaids aren’t Polish.
Young Vicar Ng’s lost half the flock; his wife’s gone over to Rome.
After 17 hours of confessing (the cow!), the Catholics sent her back home.

Bridie MacGowan—the widow of Nolan—has lately been feeling tingles.
That Maltese man with the Vauxhall van’s been bringing her roses and Pringles.
Could it be love from heaven above’s got Bridie so woozy and squirmy?
More likely than not it’s herpes she’s caught. The man with the van’s got shingles.

It’s no go national debt, it’s no go climbing inflation,
All we want is a flag to wave and an end to immigration.

‘Measure for measure, we’re all better off,’ says carpenter Sid to Peter.
‘There’s something ethereal about the imperial (but I’d trade them my pint for their litre).’

It’s no go revolting cheeses, it’s no go veal blanquette.
All I want, for the love of Jesus, are a Plowman’s and Vogue cigarette.

Iskander Jameel and his lovely wife Lil’ were returning to London from Durban.
They were held for a day at Heathrow they say. Something to do with his turban.
‘We’re English you know,’ they told Passport Control. ‘Our parents were born in Stevenage.’
The officer (sceptical) applied cream (antiseptical) to his hands after searching their baggage.

It’s no go to Strasbourg courts, it’s no go Brussels handouts.
All we want for our restaurants is a tariff on underpriced sprouts.

Mr McAvity went for a stroll in the Edgware, past ghutras and hookahs.
‘This isn’t my England,’ he thought to himself, a-tremble with fears of bazookas.
Hurrying back, he bumped into Kala, the nurse who had cared for his daughter.
He couldn’t quite see why this girl from Fiji should be different, yet somehow she ought to.

It’s no go tax increases, its no go NHS cuts.
All we want is a government powered by ether, phlogiston and nuts.

It’s no go the caravan holidays, simplified crossings at Dover.
It’s no go the wines from Bordeaux, packed tight in the boot of the Rover.
It’s no go the cheery ‘Allo!’ when arriving at Plage de la Baule.
All we seek is to stay for a week every year ’till we’re sick of Blackpool.

It’s no go to liberal myths, it’s no go ethnicity.
Wide open doors bring civil wars and economic adversity.

The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall forever,
But if you break the bloody glass you won’t hold up the weather.

Read 191 times Last modified on Thursday, 05 March 2020 11:20
P. W. Bridgman

P.W. Bridgman's most recent book is A Lamb: Poems (Ekstasis Editions, 2018).