A post-Brexit poem

as Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams
he found himself transformed into Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson

it’s no use staring at the ceiling, Gregor
get out on your bike and connect with your people

there are still diamonds in the mines of Rhodesia
the beefeaters still ride unicorns
and there are still crumpets for tea in Skegness

one day, you will star in an epic poem
about how the leopards got their spots
​
inked in carefully with a fountain pen
that fits into a pocket in your post-ironic briefcase