So returns the conquered, a headless Theresa May, flat on her back, still and stiff upon her shield, a sheaf of papers in her curled, livid hand proclaiming slavery in our time.
Her executioner, Donald Tusk, dressed in grim Nazi gray, arms akimbo, legs spread wide across the channel, sniffs contemptuously.
The enemy bears down and glowers.
Jüncker, the dutiful Vichy puppet, heaves May’s head across the channel.
The wild, half-naked tribes of Brussels scream.
Hooooooooooooo!
Slavery in our time indeed.
There’s an ill wind blowing from the east, Watson.
The Nazi menace is real and has reared its ugly head again.
These Nazis are clever.
These Nazis talk pretty.
These Nazis look respectable.
These Nazis wear suits.
These Nazis take no prisoners.
These Nazis are ravenous wild dogs.
Saliva flows copiously out over their razored, yellowed teeth.
Look quickly.
See those red eyes glowing in the blackness of the night.
Talk softly.
Be alert, Britain.
The Nazi menace is near.
Cowboy Archer 