A PLAGUE ON ONE HOUSE IN PARTICULAR

O, then, I see Queen May hath been with you.
She is the Brexit midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than a minion
On the fore-finger of a Farage-man,
Drawn with a team of fawning acolytes
To thwart our livings as we wait ill-starred;
Her wagon-coach is made of manifest lies,
The cover of the sweat of functionaries,
The traces of the smallest carer’s health,
The collars of the public’s wat'ry faith,
Her whip of double speak; the lash of fear;
Her waggoner an amber-coated Rudd,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Pricked from the frightened finger of her chief:
Her chariot is of empty promises
Made by the flop haired Johnson or Eton Gove,
Time out o’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through all our brains, and then we dream of fear;
O’er workers backs, that dream on working straight,
O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees,
O’er nurses lips, who straight on caring dream,
Which oft the angry May with blisters plagues,
Because their tongues by EU tainted are:
Sometime she gallops o’er a Corbyn’s nose,
And then dreams he of unexpected gain;
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail
Tickling a Davies nose as a’ lies asleep,
Then dreams he of another benefice:
Sometime she driveth o’er a UKIP’s neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of walls five-fathom steep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,
And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two
And sleeps again.
This is that very May
That spurns the law of reason in the night,
Half bakes the promise of a better world,
Then soon retrenches, when misfortune strikes:
This is the hag, when crones sleep in their beds,
That presses them and steals from them their slum,
Making them women much demented:
This is she …