The chocolate biscuits gone, he eyes the plains
Dejectedly; must each Home Office day
Produce this sense of promise leached away?
The best has vanished; this sad knowledge stains
His life. It is the disappointment pains,
Yet he has dreams enough: Theresa May
In bondage leathers ordering him to play
Extreme and dreadful games... Outside it rains
And rains, and gutters fill with autumn leaves.
November! Month of fogs and pale white suns;
A month when hopes are harvested like sheaves,
'No chocolate,' he growls with savage breath
But fights despair; on her his fancy runs:
Theresa, whose dark eyes are fierce as death.
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