the moon is on ice
no stars melt the night
your heart runs apace
on ebb of the tide
blue eyes turn away
from a hope cast aside
and cries fill the hall
as heathens divide
yet one string gentle sounds
to enlighten the shade
of souls held within
this macabre masquerade
as guillotine blade
makes ready to fall
to honour the word
referendum didst call
Ye squirming of worms
of westminster\'s cesspit
deliver thee to us
unequivocal Brexit.