Twas the night before Brexmas when all through the House; not a creature backed May, not even a mouse.

The stakes were quite high, but she didn’t care; she still seemed to think that the votes would be there.

The Leavers were nestled all snug in their beds; while sugar-plum unicorns danced in their heads;

And Remainer-in-chief, that Adonis chap; had filled up our brains with conspiracy crap.

When out on College Green there arose such a clatter; as Peston and Kuenssberg stood around for a natter.

Gazebos and scaffolding put up in a flash; to interview bored journos in need of some cash.

The moon on the breast of Channel 4’s Jon Snow; and no one dare admit: “I just don’t know”.

And what