[Nigel Mace]

Nothing proclaims nonsense facts
Like a metre that good taste redacts
For the muscles in Brussels
With which Britain hustles
Are entrenched in the EU’s own Acts.

Twenty eight and not thirty
(A typo, by dyslexic Qwerty?)
And our nation’s relations
Have built expectations
May can’t meet, now ‘Brexit’s’ gone shirty

As to those peaceful accords,
That with pens have made ploughshares from swords,
And shafted Gog and Magog
By us each as a cog
It’s our peace that trumps Trump’s missile hordes.

As once with Erik the Red,
From whose Greenland the EU’s been sped,
Shipping seas, on false reason
Is trading-mens' treason
First read up - lest you find you’re misled.