witlessly led

Britain is swinging the lead;
Being witlessly led
By its well-fed ringmasters,
Right into disaster, for crumbs
From the Top Table’s bread

High on their vacuous vistas,
They’ve built with an imbecile’s pride
They keep pushing their luck
Just to cover the fuck-ups
They made with their swivel-eyed lies

They yearn for a future that’s passed
So their best before date they deny
With rhetoric mnemonics
For faux histrionics, they polish the shine
Where their judgement has died

As the blighties of Brexit
That thought themselves smart
Grow increasingly thicker and
Desperate fast, they quicken the proof in
The elbow and arse because,

Even if Brexit where not a dumb farce,
Not one of those bozos is up to the task.

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