The British Government have spent the weekend trying to decide if they want a soft or hard Brexit. I want to tell them it is not a boiled egg. Instead I wrote a poem called
Like a drunk guy at a party,
we saying our goodbyes.
We’re intent on going home,
but is that regret in their eyes?
We’ve kissed the host, and now we’re
lingering on the brink,
we’re hoping someone says to us
hey have another drink.
We know that if we leave now,
we’ll miss all the fun.
But our other half has spoken,
and they want us home by one.
So we’re really going to do this,
the taxis on it way,
but we don’t know how to get home,
or how much will have to pay.
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