What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the proper gander. The prize Christmas turkey nominally in charge of the UK is still giving the EU the bird. Feathers continue to fly in this ridiculous game of chicken.
The great tit insists on flying the nest, as the vultures egg him on. They worry that he will duck the issue and leave them with the bill.
Brexit is as dead as the dodo, whatever the turkey of Turkish descent may say. He may grouse about intransigence, but in truth he’s winging it in order to feather his nest.
The EU is, naturally, taking no notice of the strutting peacock swanning about like he owns the place. The legal eagles will claw him back, however much he magpies bits of his predecessor’s deal.
They won’t quail, however much the Brits grouse. The massive cock parrots his stock phrases, but they don’t hear a dicky bird.
Britain will rise like a phoenix from the flames, he tweets. Unfortunately, his hawkish attitude comes across like a one-legged pigeon trying to be cock of the walk. The cat is among the pigeons, the fox is in the hen house, and everyone is running around like headless chickens.
The fly by night chancers will be banged up. Doing bird, and up before the beak, they will sing like canaries and the identity of the cuckoo in the nest will be revealed. The country will resound to the noise of 17.4 million ostriches removing their heads from the sand.
People will realise that they were gulled. We will all have to walk on eggshells for a while, while the cracks heal. Birds of a feather should always stick the fragments of society back together.
Why did the chicken cross the road? To avoid the Turkey? Wren will we realise they are robin us blind?
I’m all of a flutter. The chickens are coming home to roost.