It has been a long and fruitless conflict. Yet now it is over. Today, at the sausageth minute, of the sausageth hour, of the sausageth day of July, we shall remember the fallen. Those poor sausages who didn't make it.
For many didn't make it. They lie rotten in the abattoirs of Ballyhornan, Carnfunnock, and even the Titanic exhibition in Belfast itself.
Memorials have sprung up across Britain and Ireland for those bangers, saveloys and chipolatas who fell in the great Sausage War.
"We shall never forget them," said Sausage War historian Geoff Offul. "It was their finest hour. So much meat, such a senseless loss. It was like a butcher's shop out there. I shall now read from the great Sausage War poet Wilfred Jeff.
"Bent double, like a sack of meat,
Knock-kneed, spitting like hags, we cursed through grease,
Till on the haunting fire we began to blacken
And towards weary mouths behungreth."
The poem has been described by contemporary writers as "utter horseshit", yet it remains popular among those who remember the Sausage Wars.
Geoff Trifle served for the whole three weeks that the war lasted. "It was hell, absolute hell. Wilfred Jeff sums it up nicely. We had customers begging for sausages, they couldn't understand why we didn't have any here in Northern Ireland when in England and Scotland and Wales they had plenty. I told them it was Boris's fault, but they wouldn't stop."
The hell is now at an end, for three months at least. The current conditions for sausage trade between Britain and Northern Ireland have been extended until the end of September. But then what.
The Prime Minister had no answer, "Bah! Then we'll ask for another three months. You'll see."