Written in 2012 this poem still has immediate political relevance.

An eerie half-forgotten sound
Crosses the northern sea,
A tramping sound, a trampling sound,
A sound to worry the free.

The nation-states of Europe
For ten years have managed to run
Their currency, called the Euro,
Acting as if they were one.

And I, I admit I condoned it,
Thinking it would be fair
If everyone got together
And each had their own fair share.

But we forget that, like individuals,
Those countries that became
Partners in this venture
Were never forged the same.

Some are sycophantic
Others are much too small,
There are those that work the hardest,
And a few that do no work at all

The French they bluff and they posture
But hang to the tail of the Hun.
Ireland falls into recession
As Portugal's output nears none.

Spain is scuppered by housing,
Italy by Berlosconi,
BeNeLux fear they are fading
and consider the currency phoney.

In Greece they so wanted to join
this club, that they put in a bid
by fiddling their capital sums,
but who did they think they would kid?

They lived the life that they knew,
Without striving hard to achieve
Their wages, pensions, and houses.
Yes, you could call them naive.

But that is the way that they are,
Charming and friendly and Greek,
Sharing their live and their love
A culture that's truly unique.

But up in the North it is chill,
For the German does not like to play,
But holds to his levers of power
And stashes his Euros away.

Der Fatherland cannot abide
The Portuguese, Irish and Greeks,
So it hardens its harshest demands
For the Final Solution it seeks.

And that sound that comes on the breeze?
Tis the pound of ten thousand Jackboots ,
As Under der Linden is sung
And our hands raise in right-hand salutes.