Céline was right. Some people die
for twenty years, some in the splendour
of a second. So I lie
with body spent, my psyche tender
as Europe falls beneath the weight
of one more wave of dark invaders.
I’ve had my beer, and have my fate,
my liver fraught with scars and craters.
And yet the moralists in Brussels,
with their forked tongues and beady eyes,
their gall and bureaucratic muscles,
prod my way to paradise.