Neighbours: Traditional Vernacular British Poem About Brexit

I will run wild in the woods,

twigs in my hair,

and I will shout: Merlin, Merlin!

(what’ll the neighbours say, what’ll the neighbours say)

Why didn’t you prophesy this?

And Myrddin Emrys, Merlin himself, stirs in his oak tree and says


This madness?

This time when the whole country goes mad and roots in the woods,

like you do,

covered in dirt and bruises, leaves and twigs in their hair,

talking to a piglet,

shouting, screaming to a piglet,

that the money is burning, the world is burning, we are all burning

(burning, burning)

and power has no connection

and the kings have no ears

and are not kind

and the small have no power but

(fuck it, fuck you, fuck it all, fuck right off)

kick away the props

because they hate it all and want it to burn

and who can blame them, who can blame them little piglet?

Who can blame the powerless who kick back for once,

when they have no prospects and nothing to love

not even a pig to love,

but plenty of liars to tell them who to blame,

to pick on,

to fan the little flame that hates what is different

never thinking it would flare so high and burn us all down,

or that it can happen here,

taking up a torch and running screaming through the woods

in the traditional way,

little piglet,

with their hair wild and not a thought for civilization

or their neighbours

(Lord, who is my neighbour?)

or the future

and doesn’t it feel good to paint yourself blue and scream through the woods

not taking thought

to be a mob again

when the kings won’t listen and keep kicking down hard

and the money is burning and they told you

(You saw it on Neighbours)

there’s no hope and no change and nowhere for you

and told you who to blame

for the roads being straight and the eggs being square

and the world wasn’t for you,

no neighbours, nosy neighbours, never no more neighbours,

signs and portents saying Keep Out

things aren’t what they used to be

and you know whose fault that is?

You used to be able to freewheel downhill

to the New World Symphony

in the Old World

with a loaf of brown bread,

no more!

Maybe they’re homesick for rationing,

maybe they’ll be glad when it comes back,

(fuck that, fuck you, fuck fuck fuck)

you can’t go back

for a blue cover

nonsense means nonsense

and all the kings choosing power without thought

shallow short term petty power now

without a plan, without sense, without a thought

(burning, burning, fuck, fuck, fuck)

and it’s a long way

without one thought of Connaught or Leinster,

Munster or Ulster,

no neighbours, never a neighbour, not one,

no deal, no honour, no future, no choices,




I’d never have prophesied it, 


think about it,

who could have prophesied all this

when even after the fact

it sounds incredible?