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 Round, like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel,
never ending or beginning on an ever-spinning reel
like a snowball down a mountain, or a carnival balloon,
Teresa May and David Davies, uncle Boris the buffoon.
I have listened with impatience, pondered endlessly and oft
talk of borders soft or hard and dreams of Brexit hard or soft
like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind.

And their words are empty mansions and their echoes linger on
in the places that they came from where the sun has never shone,
like a door that keeps revolving in a half-forgotten dream,
like the ripples from a pebble someone tosses in a stream,
as the thunder of the aircraft and the tremor of the bomb
will one day be returning to the places they came from
like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind.

Keys that jingle in your pocket, words that jangle in your head...
Why did summer go so quickly?
Is your empire really dead?
You’ll find the world is changing and you’ll find that it’s too late;
that the world is not your oyster and it isn’t on your plate.

Pictures hanging in a hallway and the fragment of a song...
One day soon, they‘ll all be going, and I hope they won’t be long;
as their empty words keep turning, lives are broken in the mill;
some say Teresa May, but no, I doubt she ever will,
like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel
never ending or beginning on an ever-spinning reel
as the images unwind
like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind.