In Albion's heart a reckoning grows nigh,
Election's mark dost not disturb the pound.
The Labour front, a crown they seek to plough,
Yet sterling's pulse, it dost not upward bound.
From Hungary rings forth a strident horn,
A champion of Trump exclaims his creed.
"Make Europe Great", his motto worn with scorn,
With scepter of the Union takes the lead.
In Gallic lands where bonds of trade do sway,
Uncertainties from politics embroil.
The second round of vote doth cast a gray,
Yet through the storm, their yield retains its coil.
