Today, above the wounds of dale-side Scars
I tracked the flight of raptors -
How apt that Drysdale’s flyting verses parse
The targets that she captures.
So let her, who’s proposed a second ‘flyte’,
Pick out its quaking victim,
Such one that best provokes a witty fight -
No quarter still our dictum.
The ‘Brexit’ corpse we’ll leave to ravens still
Its entrails to pick over
Though whence they came from, Mail-men's panics will
Claim “Vultures land at Dover.”
Above such carrion let our flyting soar
Eagle-eyed for feeble verse,
To spot, Day-Lewis like, which pens prove more
Truthful than those truly worse.
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