The deed is done forever to deplore. 

‘This precious stone set in the silver sea,

Which serves it in the office of a wall,

Or as a moat defensive to a house. 

Against the envy of less happier lands.

 Richard ll (1595)

EXIT

This precious stone. This sceptered isle.

This little place, no longer Great.

This carving up of meat upon the plate

of which I am ashamed to be a part.

The fractures deep like furrows set

with each footfall we contemplate our death.

No longer ours- so who’s we ask?

The cracks are there like staves along a bar

but music doesn’t flow

and dancing stops.

So, is it hard or soft?

This breaking of humanity.

This place that is no longer ours.

 Or yours.

 Or theirs.

This pointless, pointless, pointless point.

That we have reached by 3%

 and thrown our lives 

into the sea.

For all the world to both pastiche and parody.

But now those far less happier lands place hands on heart and sigh

‘There but for the grace of...’

 This is not me.

As Isle takes fright and flight to fight no more.

The deed is done.

Forever to deplore.