Yes here it is, my Brexit (or maybe Regrexit) poem that I promised on the other thread. It’s not too controversial and there should be something here for everybody as it’s quite light hearted. I apologise for the profanity in verse 11. See if you can spot it
The Church Mice
There was a Minster in the Marsh
Raised up in ages past,
When England wished to rule the world
And other nations laughed.
By day the sunlight played on stone
That rose up like some deathless tree,
And lanced through blue and blood-red glass
Fell soft on velvet drapery.
The Rector was an Oxford man
Who served the townsfolk well.
He pardoned all their avarice
With tea, and cake as well.
His dark little friend the Sexton
Was often heard to say
"I’ll squeeze them in for half the price-
As long as they all pay."
But every day the Sun must set,
And Night steals in once more.
So the wicked shadows lengthen
And the draught seeps under the door.
Now is the time you will see them:
A whisker, a tail or a paw.
Now you can hear the skittering claws:
A million thin voices and so many more.
From every corner, from every grate,
Over the kneelers and under the vestry door,
From the bowels of the organ come frolicking mice
To grasp what they can with tooth and claw.
The fat yellow cat finds good hunting here,
Plays a capital game in the shades.
There are no aces here for the mice-
Only a handful of spades.
In the graveyard a mouse might trust wicked Luck
When a horseshoe moon rides the sky.
But he sees his own distorted reflection
And it looks like an alien to his eye.
The witless owl looks on from the Grove
With a head made of eyes and a millitary bill,
While the weasel lies under the old broken cross
To make of the stragglers a nice swift kill.
The Rector never saw a mouse.
His mind was on higher matters.
His mandate was to preserve our souls
While the prayerbooks wore to tatters.
The Sexton thought he should fix the roof
But he was ignoring the point.
The rot had started beneath the floor
And was threatening each and every joint.
It was those poor church mice, you see,
So small and dusty brown,
That gnawed their way through the power cable
And burned the Minster down.
by Samantha Stanley.