The border is soft and soggy,
a 300-mile sick-making meringue
in which migrants, dissidents and sheep
sink down with gurgling screams
in the thick vomity goo.
A virtual Sir Geoffrey Donaldson MP
dons a tin-hat, khaki
and Dad’s Army badge. He stands
to attention outside an invisible border post
saluting Chinese investors, Sunday school parties
and day trippers from the Irish Creationist Society.
From his bedroom in Bexley
a 17-year-old schoolboy taps at his tablet
supervising the mass electrocution
of every cow, pig and rabbit
that strays across into Little Free Britain
to infect our animals
with Europhilia, global glanders and sundry diseases.
Ex-paramilitaries halt oil-smuggling tankers
before waving their comrades through
after taking their cut. Robots,
programmed to shout in Ulster-Scots,
patrol a thousand tracks and underground tunnels.
Each night over Newry fifty loudspeakers
blast out Sammy Wilson MP singing Slade’s greatest hits.
A sozzled replicant Winston Churchill
flees his epic bout of depression
on a manic tour of pill boxes, barbed wire and mines
while computerised bulldogs cheer
and a brass band and choir from England
bang out and sing hip hip hooray! hip hip hooray!
it’s happy border fantasy day.