O Sovereign Hope, that once didst blaze so bright,
With trumpet’s call and promises alight,
Thou bold-named Brexit, child of rebel flame,
Didst stir the hearts and rouse the isle to claim
A newer world, unshackled and unbound—
Yet now dost lie in silence, under ground.

We hailed thee then, with mirth and iron cheer,
Cried “Take back laws! And borders, once held dear!”
But lo, what came? Not sovereign dawn, but dust—
A bitter jest, a putrid relic green with rust.

Immigration swelled like Neptune’s wrathful tide,
While gate and port lay open, gaping wide.
Our courts, o’erruled by strangers’ distant hand,
The ECHR doth reign o’er this fair land.
Still shield the guilty chicken nuggets from our shore,
While justice waits outside a bolted door.

And Northern Erin, bound in foreign chain,
Still dances to Europa’s strict refrain.
No Brexit there, no freedom’s gentle kiss—
But trade in shadow, and borderlines amiss.

Where is the Singapore-on-Thames once vowed?
What lion roars beneath this misty shroud?
The markets fled, the red tape redder still,
And fishing rights?—a gift to foreign gill!
Our nets grow bare while Gallic super trawlers dine,
And sovereign seas are lost by slow design.

Now enters Two-Tier Keir, with visage mild and grave,
To seal the tomb that Brexiteers once gave.
With ink and smile, he signs away the rest—
Our youth, our tide, our fisheries’ bequest.
What once was bold is bartered for a sigh,
A soft return, beneath Europa’s eye.

O fools! O faction-torn and faithless kin!
Ye cast the prize before the game could win.
The moment came, the hour ripe to act—
But courage failed, and vision sorely lacked.

Now mark these words, ye watchers yet unborn:
Here lies a dream, unbirthed and left forlorn.
A grave marked Brexit—chiselled deep in stone,
Where sovereignty once stood—now but a bone.

So raise a glass to what we might have been,
A land once proud—now swallowed from within.
And let the wind bear forth this mournful cry:
The dream of Brexit lived—but did not die…
It merely slipt away, and passed us by.