So gather ye round for a tale of our time, where nations once mighty now march out of rhyme,
Where the soufflé of Europe was baked with great flair, yet flattens and falls in the cold morning air.
They spoke of a kingdom, united and grand, yet built on delusions and castles of sand,
For old empires slumber, and young fools decree, that Brussels shall rule from the cliffs to the sea.
Ah, France! With her banners all tattered yet bold, the master of battle, at least when retold.
She leads the great chorus with pompous refrain, yet surrenders the stage at the hint of a strain.
And Germany, watching, recalls with delight, that power’s not taken by cannon but might.
With banks and with ledgers, with markets in tow, they conquer through debt where their steel could not go.
The Briton stands weary, his crown lost at sea, unsure if he’s sovereign or bowing his knee.
One foot in old Europe, one foot in the past, one eye on the East where the storm gathers fast.
While Italy drinks to the madness at hand, content to play Nero while flames lick the land.
And Greece, ever patient, just hums to herself, still waiting for Rome to return with some wealth.
Yet Poland remembers what past years have taught, the price of illusion, the lesson blood-bought.
A fortress of caution where fools rush in blind, for history’s spectres still march in their mind.
And Hungary listens with half an amused ear, while Brussels commands with its usual sneer.
For where kings once ruled with a sceptre and crown, now pencil-necked clerks hand their edicts down.
They boast they need neither the Yankee nor shield, and claim they shall march forth to Russia’s own field.
Yet Moscow, it chuckles, so does the East, for China stands waiting to buy up the feast.
A cheque in one hand and a handshake so firm, yet Europe’s too daft to see past the term.
While Russia, bemused, with a twinkle of mirth, reminds them who’s master of winter-worn earth.
And thus the great family of nations pretend, that history's grudges are laid to their end.
Yet blood runs in rivers too deep to deny, and banners once fallen still wave in the sky.
So raise up your glasses, let’s toast to the dream, this union of folly, this grand Europe's scheme.
A brotherhood fractured, a house made of dust, collapsing once more, as collapse is a must.
(By John Shenton)