On the day before the UK is finally left to go fuck itself
I watch a politely forced interview in my British front room
David Cameron is looking like he's just come after dropping a bomb of Molly
The only kind of bomb he'll ever be allowed drop again what
And I start almost to feel bad for him
The way I've felt bad about all the other poor fuckers who get a whoosh too quickly
And start rambling all sensitive and vulnerable and so bloody sincere
But then I remember I shouldn't feel sorry for him at all
Because when you fuck it and it's your idea you're supposed to stay home and try not talk to anyone you know
Not talk to the BBC about how you're still surprised you fucked it
But you respect those you took advantage of your naievity and schoolboy ambition
His eyes are like what you see staring one-eyed into a half empty bottle of stout, lads
Wrecked
The EU have been like the kindest hotel managers
Who are trying to allow some deviant family who've wrecked their best rooms
Away to to the police with some last shred of human dignity
Because they know they are killing their children
There's a song that mentions a man standing waiting for a train
On a particularly English rainy summer day
By a minor band with good players
That would get my mother excited
If it was played on the golden oldies radio slot
It would even get my mother excited when she heard
Even it was arguably "depressing"
Because it reminded her of being young and disillusioned
And it sounded cutting edge and new
It was the sound of the future then
In the nationalist wasteland of early 1981
And the double tracked vocals sang "We Fade to Grey"
I write this, not wandering into the cinder zone of Hiroshima
But just sitting half-prostrate on the sofa of my tastefully European inspired British front room
Not as a warning to the world, but as a half-arsed lament for a world out of warnings.