“X” marks the spot, the people have spoken.
With a UKIP quip, Brexit means Brexit.
Britannia, from her slumber, has woken,
But will it be a hard or soft exit?
Splendid isolation, just the ticket!
A tricky divorce from fey Eurocrats,
skittling them out on a sticky wicket
that is fertile ground for prowling fat cats.
But what did we actually vote for?
Britain’s answer will take years to emerge.
Let us hope it’s something we won’t abhor
That leaves us stranded on a crumbling verge.
In the wake of PM Theresa May’s keynote speech on Brexit I’ve dusted off this poem from three months ago.