A sadly apt poem for Europe's current course…

Who is in charge of the clattering train
The axles creak and the couplings strain
The pace is hot and the points are near
Sleep has deadened the driver’s ear
And the signals flash in the night in vain
For Death is in charge of the clattering train.

[From an old, yellowing copy of Punch magazine. Apologies about the bleakness. It was just too apt to resist posting…]