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The UK Border Farce

December 31, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Little usherette fix bayonet and head for Ramsgate

you are the first line of defence against marauding Syrians

migrating economically north

instead of battling barrel bombs south.

With your tin hat and floppy vegetation fascinator

you will find them on the beaches,

the axles,

the greasy spoon café tarmac.

 

Pitchfork issued and the briefest of briefings received

your nasal passages flare

and zone in on the tell-tale odour

of 1970’s Swimming Baths.

Chlorine scented invaders are often discovered

clinging to Aldi lorries

or ravenously scanning Argos catalogues

in lay-bys on the Broadstairs Road.

 

For once the bigger picture eludes you

all focus is sharp on the here and now

as the rallying cry of ‘Don’t Panic’ echoes

ancient hop gardens

from the late Watney’s era.

Rain comes early afternoon,

soaking your woolly scarf

before you seek refuge in a shattered bus shelter.

 

The expected wave of Aleppo social climbers

clutching battered directions

to Queen Street Jobcentre Plus

does not materialise today,

but that doesn’t mean they won’t come tomorrow.

The number 14 bus splashes an oily puddle

over your khaki slacks, war is a dirty business,

heaven knows if the stain will come out.

 

Meanwhile furtive interlopers whose idea of Middle East

is certainly not Great Yarmouth

wait their moment to elude the butcher, the baker, the popcorn maker,

unaware that we now control our borders

and our old helping hand has bolted the gate.

This newly minted sovereign state will repel any Brentrance

with Empire pride and our defiant chorus of

‘Who do you think you are kidding child jihadi’s?’

 

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