“Going Nowhere: Epilogue”

16588043837_8472f6952d“Going Nowhere” will probably never get 100% finished – it’s the way my brain tries to make sense of Brexit, and as such – it’s therapy, venting, and an endless experiment in frustration in verse. Typically for a country that’s all backwards, I wrote the epilogue first.

 

Come pick our fruit and farm our land.
Come cook our nation’s favourite dish.
This island’s drowning in its waste.
Come fix the pipes, bring back the flow.

Come mend our frail and fleshy frames.
Come put our mothers to their beds.
Come heal our wounds, dream up our drugs.
For goodness’ sake, come fix our heads.

Come greet our gods and say our prayers.
Come for our fasts, our feasts, our faiths.
Come and refresh our common sense.
Come do our maths, come test our proofs.

Come learn our speech and teach us yours.
Our language here is left to rot
And our tongues could use a change.
While we’re at that, come fix our teeth.

Come fuck our men. Come kiss our girls.
Come dance and teeter in the streets.
Come shout your curses at our cabs.
Come fight our bouncers, mix our drinks.

Come play our sports at which we’ve sucked.
Come pay your way through our schools.
Come teach our kids to think and trust.
Come bring your kids to our parks.

Come change our minds. Come wind us up.
Come over for a good old row.
We thought we shut you out for good.
How wrong we were. Come let us in.

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