Wind back the clocks, cut off the dialogue
Prevent entente with words like wop and frog
Silence the Ode to Joy. With muffled drum
Bring out the worst and let the chaos come.
Let strange planes circle moaning overhead
Confirming that the thing we made is dead.
The once-unthinkable is coming true.
Let all our passports once again be blue.
They were our North, our South, our East, our West,
Our guarantee of safety in our rest,
I helped to build the story, sang the song;
I thought that it would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out the dozen;
We have no traffic with a European cousin;
Blow up the tunnel, burn the brotherhood,
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
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