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
Party Poopers.
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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