The Brexit Ended The Tango Poem by Sarah Mkhonza

When the two took the floor,
They flowed into the platform,
An elegance unknown in their step,
To the admiration of many,
Who knew there would be winners,
If this couple held out to the end,
While some couple wished they would win,
And leave the winning to their perfection,
They were not thinking of the impossible,
For nobody plans to lose,
Except those who walk away.

The dance continued into the night,
Cheerers rising and sitting anxiously,
Clapping of hands, the applause went on,
The judges rising in their seats,
Wondering if the German dancer, French dancer
Belgian Dancer or Greek dancer tangos
To the music of the sixties or the eighties,
Or just lost in a national roundabout
Where the milkman dances alone under a cow,
And the windmill turns round and round,
In circles night and day in the wind
In a Holland all its own.

Then there was an invasion of the floor,
By strangers dressed in tattered clothes,
Ones from the street, the poor striding in,
Their shoes upturned and coats floating,
With shoulder pads flying whose lining floated,
Flailing and falling into the eyes,
Of these two lovers of the tango from everywhere,
This cantata so beautiful this song,
Has been taken over by the wind,
That howls and shews everybody away,
For the floor no longer smells the same,
Having been perfumed by all the perfume,
That cannot be outsmelt by all of the Paris,
perfumes that a la mode.


The judges allowed all the dancers,
And argued all flowers smell good,
When crushed into perfume from Arabia,
Where the knights of England once lived,
For they were sons of heroes who had lived,
On all the corners of the world,
And therefore gathered the roses,
From the rose shows of distant lands,
And should love the perfume from there,
For they had sold it for years and years,
For now the sham of reviling smells,
Was so false the upturned nose,
That smelt the truth like it was not,
Was not going to ruin the dance half way,
Into such a well planned nocturnal event,
That was a red carpet of Arabia event for sure.

More poor came in from the streets,
Spitting into the judges tables,
Trampling the score sheets to bits,
The papers flying in the wind,
Like a new snow storm on the internet,
That invades and takes over the brain.
The judges flew out through the door,
They called security guards in black
Helmets, batons and guns and flowers,
A mingled mess masseuse of masses on the floor,
Thrown on the back of every judges table,
the feet stomping on the front row,
Where the upturned tables lay broken,
For the files are empty as is the score sheet,
The invasion of a Europe's got talen show,
Cannot be stopped by breaking down,
And crying foul when all goes out,
Into the open for everybody to see.

Brexit may be an exit,
For some it is a running,
For others a ruining,
To end all is to sing God save the Queen,
From the north pole and south pole,
Of far away shoes when standing,
Hands on the chest and forever,
Looking on the problems of a continent,
That was learning to tango,
At a pace faster than the two,
Who started the tango on the floor,
Him pushing, her pulling,
For the world cared that much,
And looked at it for what it was.

Who will live to tell of the dreams,
Once flaunted in the hope of doing,
As the dancers began the dance,
And hit the floor with solid steps,
Assured with the rhythm of the Beatles song?
For it was the taking of a stage once empty,
And turning heads towards the dancers,
And showing the world how it is done,
To come together even after wars,
That tore and fried a continent in fire,
Seven times two decades having gone,
No leaders to write and show the way,
For Churchil went the way of all,
For those were people who saw it all
While others saw what it was,
That tomorrow would be written about.

Would the habib on a queen's head,
Have taught the few who rename the truth,
That the world is sizzling again,
In a fire that is smouldering,
Where arms are flying to places,
And people suffer like Omram,
Who wipes the dust of the rubble,
That he was removed from dusty as dirt,
Looking for a mother he cannot find,
With the familiarity of reaching for the breast,
That he knew when his years taught him,
That we live to reach out and hold,
The familiar and put it in our mouths,
Even when Brexit has come and gone,
To live these flying about in a nearby,
That could have been stronger and able,
To put the child to sleep just one day,
Than go begging a refugee,
That will drown on a boat far away,
And never know what home was like,
For we all refused to let this tango,
Go on into the finish.