BREXIT BLUES
The future’s here. Let me mark your card.

They’re gambling on England’s future

Down in Ireland’s graveyard.

Vegetables will be rotting in the fields

They’ll be shortages in the health service, and at our meals.
 Movement, it won’t come for free,

And the butter will melt before we get to tea.

The Shropshire lad and the Wilmslow lass

Will find they’ve come to a sorry pass.

Cheap travel, it won’t be accessible, and that’s not fair.
 But you can say goodbye to Ryan Air.

The future’s here. Let me mark your card

We’re gambling on England’s future

Down in Ireland’s graveyard.
They’ll lose subsidies in various manners

As our new shock troops unleash their banners.

A nation sold to David, Boris and Liam

Will experience a spiralling ceaseless dream

Of love, hope, talent and open hearts.

Lions drawn by donkeys will be put behind the carts.
 We’ll see Nigel grinning in his stall
 Counting his big MEP pension

While the rest of us get bugger all.
 Stagnation and despond will be everywhere,
 Like we will have a fucking care.

The future’s here. Let me mark your card.
 We’re gambling on England’s future

Down in Ireland’s graveyard.
Britons do as Britons can.
 That’s every woman and every man.
 We enjoy the damp and the winter chill
 And the exertion of our own free will.

Forty eight bows to fifty two,

That’s better known as the will of the people to you.
 You’ll only get to see the light when there’s been a crack.
 So rejoice, because we’ve got our country back.
 Oranges don’t grow on St Stephen’s Green,

And Arlene’s fuel bill is not to be seen.

Dodds, McManus, all those useless clowns
 Lording it up as their country drowns.

But rejoice, fill yourselves with glee,

Mrs May found the money tree.

The economy tanks, the firms go bust.
Rejoice because in Boris and Michael,
 David and Liam we trust.

The future’s here. Let me mark your card.
 They’re gambling on England’s future
 Down in Ireland’s graveyard.
 Gambling on England’s future
 Down in Ireland’s graveyard.
Vegetables will be rotting in the fields

They’ll be shortages in the health service, and at our meals.
 Movement, it won’t come for free,

And the butter will melt before we get to tea.

The Shropshire lad and the Wilmslow lass

Will find they’ve come to a sorry pass.

Cheap travel, it won’t be accessible, and that’s not fair.
 But you can say goodbye to Ryan Air.

The future’s here. Let me mark your card.

We’re gambling on England’s future

Down in Ireland’s graveyard.

Gambling on England’s future

Down in Ireland’s graveyard.

They’re gambling on England’s future

Down in Ireland’s graveyard.

Gambling on England’s future

Down in Ireland’s graveyard.