By the old White Cliffs of Dover, lookin’ lazy at the sea,
There’s a blonde British PM sitting, and I know he thinks of me:
For the wind is in the shit house and the church-bells they say:
“Come you back, you British people, come you back to Brexit Day!”
Come you back to Brexit Day,
Where the old Blighty lay:
Can’t you ‘ear their polio callin’ from the Toon to Robin Hoods Bay?
On the road to Brexit Day
Where the far-right play,
And the dawn comes up like chunder outta Spoons ‘cross the way!
His suit was blue, and his smart shirt was green,
His name was Boris Johnson, and he lied to the Queen,
I saw him first a-smokin’ on a whackin’ white cheroot,
Taking precious millions, for an Eton idle’s loot
Bloody idle, made of lies
What they called Bojo, a PM with shit ties
Plucky git, he cares for the riches, not for what the nation cries!
On the road to Brexit Day….
When the mist was on the Channel and the sun was dropping low,
He got out his little harp and Rule, Britannia was hummed slow
And now begins his reign, won from shameless feign
The kiss of power on his cheek, let’s hope he ends up in the creek
What about the date of a Russia Report leak?
On the road to Brexit Day….
He thinks his past is behind him- long ago and far away
And there ain’t no running from the EU about Brexit Day
And he’s here in London, in No.10, what the fucking hell:
“If you’ve the Russians calling, you won’t never need naught else.”
No! you won’t need nothing else
But them easy tax cut wins
And the economy is in the shithouse with those oh so English bells;
On the Road to Brexit Day….
There’re people sick and dying on those paving stones,
And the blasted English drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Though I walks through Saudi money from Chelsea to the Strand,
And the PM talks a lot of loving, but what do they understand?
Beefy face and grubby and-
What do they understand?
There’s a neater, sweeter leader in a cleaner, greener land!
On the Road to Brexit Day…
Ship me somewhere south of Lewes, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren’t no Conservative Party, and a man can raise a thirst;
For the church-bells are calling, and it’s here I must be
By the old White Cliffs of Dover, looking lazy at the sea;
On the Road to Brexit Day
Where the old Blighty lay:
Can’t you ‘ear their polio callin’ from the Toon to Robin Hoods Bay?
On the road to Brexit Day
Where the far-right play,
And the dawn comes up like chunder outta Spoons ‘cross the way!
The Poetry of J.J. Nugent 