One limb hanging off, a misfiring prosthetic,
a grovelling, desperate gargoyle,
A weather vane pointing to history –
a value that’s tested by trade deals –
This 21st Century monologue nation
will run back to past loves
with no condemnation,
will find itself hoarse
with a wavering cadence,
will call drunk at midnight
in wound up temptation.
And all in a wretched attempt to make clear
that we’re fine from the break-up,
the blast threw us clear.
So hazy, we dance with a dangerous beast;
we are ugly,