It’s The Gammonball Run!

Start your engines, it’s the Gammonball run!

From out of their homes, here they come!

They’re going to march, but not too far,

So they’re going to go by bus and car.

If they took to the streets, we’d see who they were,

And then who knows what might occur?

So each night they’ll be safe tucked up in their beds

With sweet dreams of Brexit playing in their heads.

So brave marchers, as you don’t march at all,

We all salute your noble Gammonball!

Led by dear old Nigel, who can’t be that daft,

Cos he’s up fifty quid a head for absolutely no graft.

Coda

The great day‘s arrived, but oh no, what’s this?

Before they set off, there’s a final twist!

Hardly anyone’s here, and the weather’s inclement,

So Nigel’s discovered he’s another engagement.

Let down by their leader, as they trudge in the rain,

Misled by promises, ripped off once again.

This must resound with dread familiarity…

They are now become Brexit; welcome to futility!

As each day passes, their numbers fall,

Soon there will be none left at all.

Dwindling away, like Nigel’s validity,

From Sunderland, unto obscurity.