Where does the buck stop when a backstop blocks the options in a break-up?
Haystack Haircut got the top slot,
guns the juggernaut
plum at the cliff-top.
Metal on metal, the brake shoes squeal.
An utter nut-job’s at the wheel,
no air-bag and no seat belts.
The new Prime Minister Boris Johnson
says the EU’s spouting nonsense,
digging in their foreign heels,
sticking to their cherished backstop.
His bet is that they’re gonna back off.
Don’t imbibe his specious spiel,
the country’s ****ed:
expect No Deal
Forty years of peace in Europe.
Bliss for which our forebears fought:
falling prices in the shops;
no border hassles for the tourists;
no trucks in log-jams at the ports.
On Halloween it all goes pop!
No food, no fuel, no drugs, no steel,
no wine, no cheese, no Peace.
Boris badgers on regardless
blusters for his blasted Brexit
blithe to Britain’s grind and hardship
when the Irish backstop stops it.
The hope is vain, the pain is real.
No give, no take.