Roland was a bit down
Since his mum asked for a sit down
And confessed the man she married
Was not him whose child she’d carried
And that his real dad was farm-hand
Who went by the name of “Armand”
And this news was not the greatest
He went and got a DNA test

And was hoping that his bloodline
Would not become a mangy mutt-line
But found his forbears were French peasants
In a text while shooting peasants
And he recalled when he was born
The local midwife screamed out “Frogspawn”
And he recalled his Mother’s nighty
With its slogan “SuperFlighty!”

He slapped the shiny bald head
The dad his mum cuckolded
On their turkey farm in Surrey
Amid gobblers and their slurry
Amid birds whose overfeeding
Meant their swollen hearts stopped beating
At the slightest thing to spook em
Which they rightly thought might nuke em

Henceforth he was the coroner
Of the schemes of Johnny Foreigner
Saying “Latins! get your feelers
Off our Bruces and our Sheilas
For the true family we’ve sired
Is the grand old british empire
When we ruled those far flung cities
Doling scones out and mcVities

So vote Brexit my dear gobblers
And hark ye not that hateful cobblers
That would say ye vote for Christmas
For from the Wirral’s girthy isthmus
Down to Cheddar’s gaping gullies
Can you see that even Surrey’s
Gone tits up, but how those tits’ll
Come back down, and choice tidbits’ll

All flock on down! to blighty’s burbs
And all its potholes, and its cracked kerbs
And its bookies and its pawn shops
Will just scatter like crushed hobnobs
When the gale of Brexit blows
Its exhilarating bellows
From the grave of Thatcher whooshing
To the grave of Peter Cushing”