[Erik Olson]

Changed Terms. Not Puritan the way you vote,
Nay, just the Diatribe-a-day you wrote.
Such thing that I shall now no more promote!

g

[John Whitworth]

I'm glad to be the cause of verse,
Sorry it goes from bad to worse.
If this be flyting, holy Jesus,
Give us some stuff that better pleases.
Stop harping on the same old string.
Put wit into your carolling.
Moaners remember we are out
Without the shadow of a doubt.
Scots, you are well and truly broke.
Blustering Sturgeon is a joke.
You know I'm right, I'm always right
And so Goodnight to all this sh***.

[Douglas G. Brown]

Some claim the Empire will rise again with Brexit;
Others assert that it positively wrecks it.
Who are the heros, and who are the wusses?
Damned if I know; I sing of playtypusses.

[Nigel Mace]

At last, here’s a Bard for the ‘Brexit’ -
Reduced to that five letter word.
Just crows on his dunghill, then legs it.
And arguments? Don’t be absurd.

If Scotland is broke, what is Britain?
It’s deficit’s certainly ‘Great’.
So give us our own cash. Make certain -
You’re paying for ’South Britain’s’ fate.

Our “moaning” you find disconcerting
But, frankly, we’ll never desist;
Europe’s wits find mocking diverting,
For ‘Brexit’s’ too dumb to resist.

And as to the charge we play one part,
Your ‘Brexit’ has torn up the score.
It’s Beethoven’s choir that sings our heart -
Shared liberty’s joy versus war.

[Ann Drysdale]

Well, in the absence of a last-ditch boost
this first Flyte seems to have come home to roost.
We've each of us defended our position
by sticking pins into the opposition
and now we've fallen silent it appears.

But I've had more fun than I've had in years
(not least because I got to carp and curse
here on Erato in "forbidden" verse).
I'm ready for another go. Are you?
What shall we shoot in Flyting number two?

[Nigel Mace]

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.