The pound is down.
Down is the pound.
Truss is nowhere is to be found.
Gone underground?
Is her mind sound?
Is she selling off all her gowns?
Is she petting Boris’ belly, so round?
Does Truss still mean bound?
Is Britain’s Brexit a proper noun?
Is John “Bulldog” Bull just a bloody bloodhound?
Is its clock too tightly wound?
Are Peter Gabriel and Phil Collins next on the mound?
Will they reunite to sing about selling the country’s pound?
Which, at last check, is still down.
Where, oh where, can it be found?
Beneath the US dollar, bound.
Its ankles tied, and in the Thames, drowned.
