Timon of Menapaws

Timon of Menapaws

Now find the splinter that our parchment rent.
I, Timon of Menapaws, to mix not my metaphors,
on my death bed lie, that is, in accordance with my fish fusion.
Sorry, forgive my deaf head, my wit hovers low,
dimly dawdles slow, here comes the correction inclusion,
I mean my physician.
The medicine I must sup from my spoon
with its prescription as undecipherable as a faded Viking rune,
tastes like Druid broth gone sour,
but I will linger yet an hour.
But less of my pork heath or poor health,
as I should say, I wish to speak more
of this vote they demand of me in June,
to leave or not the European Union.
Would that from my right big toe they could with pincers cleave
the moss green and black growth that is my bunion.
In truth, it has been there with no throb of pain
since my increasingly vague but vagabond youth.
But to return to my vote in the merry month of June,
and whenever has June or any other month been merry,
unless one holds to the heart love’s sweet cherry?
What would the fifth king who bore the name of Henry,
his commands bawled out among the falling flights of arrows
at Agincourt, think of those two words combined, European Union?
Would he not say that it was but a monk man’s ideal
that could not and never would be real?
Would not Wellington and Napoleon at Waterloo
mock such a notion, too?
So, too, Nelson at Trafalgar?
Ah, but by the wasp that bit my arm, it is but about politics,
as regards trade and immigration, which is to most dust dull,
and to which they give less than half a mull.
O, shield my thin laugh when in my tin bath,
I muse on those among those who vote Labour
who vote truly not for them but an idealised
Left Wing version of them that never was or could be,
having sympathy for the fox, in fury against
the horns and hounds of all to do with Tory.
That they cannot see, and with my verdict would not agree.
Some say he who holds the prime silver pistol
of the united mates should not comment on the debate,
but is this not even a demi-democracy?
Strange that I may be dead before June,
and therefore not in a fit state to cast my vote.
I die an old grey coughing goat,
visited by the most unwelcome Tim Weeper or Grim Reaper,
however you wish the shadow that casts no shadow named.
Methinks, maybe I like the sound of European Union,
like Arthur did  the Round Table,
that which Mordred broke in the last battle.
I leave the stage for the fool with his bells and broken rattle.
In this, my final act, let me take up my lute.
Ballad for the Bard, I will try to play.
It is only hard if you have naught to say.
Who can say what looms on the line?
It may be drab drizzle, it may turn out fine.

 

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