So you placed your X in the Brexit box,
The exit box, the fix it box,
But will you be able to fix our land?
Can you cure us of Maggie's pox?
Will you bring back the jobs that Thatcher stole,
The Clyde and Hull, the steel and the coal?
Will you put back the pride of the working class?
Or will you leave longer queues on the dole?
Will the money you save go to good use?
Will it fill in the holes in our N.H.S.?
Will you stand by the promises that you made,
Or were they all just part of your ruse?
How will you subsidize our food resource,
The farmer's field, the fisherman's course?
Will you stand by our rights to earn a living,
Or will you scrap them without any remorse?
Will you hold to your promise to control immigration?
Will you keep your citation to favor our nation?
Or will you and your cronies be the sole benefactors,
Of promises of pure imitation?
Will you put your money where your mouth is,
Or into your pocket; sale of purchase?
Will you make us a nation to be proud of again,
Or will we remain an imported produce?
Our factories are empty, our High Streets, bereft,
Our goods have been sold, there is little left,
Our jobs are being purchased for the lowest price:
The victims of Thatcherite theft!
So how will you, Mr. Fixit, conceive,
To bring us ease from Thatcher's disease,
By cutting off trade with five-hundred-million,
Consumers across the sea?
I can't help but feel we've been cheated again,
There'll be no refrain from Thatcherite gain,
And only the rich will benefit well,
From the plight that befalls our Great Britain.