- A heartfelt tribute to Margaret Thatcher
Met her on a Monday, her
politics were shady
Her supporters called her the Iron Lady
But now Margaret Thatcher is ten years gone;
Da-doo ron ron ron, da-doo ron ron.
So let’s all raise a glass ’cos we’re told that we oughta
say a few words of praise for Grantham’s favourite daughter.
The toast of our nation; to privatisation!
…She’s a dismal pagan, who fucked Ronald Reagan.
I’m told: “Show some respect to those who have died…!”
But when you demand that, I just answer: “Why…?”
Why do we validate people in death who aren’t worth our spit while they’re
living?
I struggle to summon a sliver of guilt, when not one shred of pity’s worth
giving.
The Beatles once said: “And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love
you make.”
That was never truer than when the old bag spluttered, and began turning bluer.
For so many of us, that day could not come too soon.
We hung on every second of the countdown:
“Duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duh-duh-duh;
boooom…!”
For years, she’d been propped up and wheeled out on gurneys -
A sad fucking parody of Weekend at Bernie’s.
So you can imagine my delight when her spokesperson said:
“We pronounce her condition stable… but dead.”
But then comes the ominous drum-beat of history
The “dignity of death” subsumes all her misery
Hear the rousing chant of the Eton boys
Sing: “Maggie, Maggie, Maggie! Oi, oi, oi...!”
To the misty-eyed mourners of Britain - oh, stop it
Or I’ll re-enact the prison murder
scene from A Prophet.
I’m like Crocodile Dundee when I come for your life
I ain’t using no razorblade – “That’s not a knife…”
I can’t hack this reverence, though we should’ve expected it;
It makes my head spin like that girl from The Exorcist.
Drinking the Kool Aid like pure holy water:
“The power of shite compels you…!”
So crack out the bunting and shake the maracas;
We’re going fool-hunting, like B.A. Baracus.
The brightest of dawns breaks the stormiest weather -
I love it when a plan comes together….!
Consign her to history, like an old Roman Numeral
I pissed myself laughing while watching her funeral
George Osborne’s tears, a memory to treasure;
I replay it over and over for pleasure.
Yes, the ship left the dock when the old hag embarked it;
It gives me such joy that she’s finally carked it.
Her vandalised statue a monument
to pain
I’d hoped we’d never see the likes of her again -
But the zombies are all springing up in her wake
It's Night of the Living Dead 2, for fuck’s sake.
And like a John McClane sequel, this time we die harder
May, Johnson, Truss: “They’re coming to get you, Barbara…”
They reanimate her corpse in Frankenstein’s dungeon
The floor starts to rumble, like PJ & Duncan
“It’s alive…!” - and like Elvis, we’re caught in a trap
...She’s back, like an unwelcome dose of the clap.
But now I have a machine gun – ho, ho, ho
My invective delivers the blow-by-blow
I won’t blithely salute when someone like her goes -
When told to be respectful, I say: “No! No! No…!”
No, I’m afraid there’s simply no gulfing that chasm;
“She died following a stroke”, they said. That must’ve been a hell of an
orgasm.
Geri Halliwell referred to her as “the first Spice Girl”.
I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want: both of them off
this fucking world.
We’ll strap ’em in a handcart, send ’em spiralling downstairs
At a terrifying speed that starts raising hairs
They’ll go white as a sheet, like pure alabaster -
Scream if you wanna go faster...!
Look, stop right now, thankyou very much,
with false equivalencies that give Thatcher the human touch.
Like Walter E. Kurtz in Apocalypse Now,
you’d have to be batshit
to venerate the rancorous sow.
“I saw a snail crawl along the edge of a
straight razor...”
But true madness is proclaiming her a women’s trailblazer!
For proudly dismantling the welfare state, she’s about as much of a feminist as
Andrew Tate.
On gay rights, she was somehow even worse: Section 28 alone deserves a
ride in the hearse.
On Apartheid, not realising her fatal error is: calling Nelson Mandela a
terrorist.
As for foreign policy, it’s mean and getting meaner: don’t cry for me,
Argentina…!
No, we’re finding Jerusalem in England’s fair lands.
Won’t you have a pasty supper, Bobby Sands…?
So if you want a few reasons just why she’s so dead to me,
Let’s take a look at the awful trout’s legacy.
Entire communities rendered asunder
Our whole social fabric, pillaged and plundered
Infrastructure buckling like
weakened Meccano
Our dignity sunken with the Belgrano
Smashed the Unions, sealed
the miners’ fate
Turned the Met Police into the long arm of the state
Arms dealer son, still on the run
As the North-South divide grows ever wide…
It’s not too much of a stretch to call her a Nazi
Now that she sleeps with the fishes, just like Luca Brasi.
According to the doctrine she found so holy
The poor get the gun; the rich, the cannoli.
Fat cats more bloated than the first corpse in Se7en
No rich man ever entered the kingdom of heaven
Like Brad Pitt asking: “What’s in the box?”
If it’s a casket, I sincerely hope that you are, you cocks…!
When deregulation makes us free-market slaves,
It'd be a waste of good fluid to piss on her grave.
As a metaphor, the Iron Lady’s a start -
Like the Tin Man of Oz, she didn’t have a heart.
Frankly, Satan would balk at the like of her ilk –
even he lets the kids have a glass of free milk…!
Football membership cards…? “Unbelievable, Jeff…!”
Her witchcraft’s like Act 1, Scene 1 of Macbeth
A more sinister crone than Heggerty Haggerty
“Managed decline” of the North’s solidarity…
And right when the country’s facedown in the ring
Like Creed and Balboa, Round 2, ding ding
She says like Columbo: “Just one more thing…”
And unleashes the Poll Tax – what the hell’s happening…?!
But like Hepburn and Fonda on golden pond
I’ll ponder no longer all that went wrong.
For be you a pauper, or king, or a farmer
No-one escapes the cold hand of karma.
If you detect a whiff of sizzling flesh, it’s the smell of Thatcher burning
You’d think that she’d spin in her grave at all this – but the lady’s not for
turning.
Yet, she roasts on a spit now in fieriest hell;
Kebab-meat for the minions. We all wish her well.
Send her down the river, like a twat in a boater
Or she’ll keep coming back, like a fucked toilet’s floater.
For as Mother Theresa might’ve once said:
“Ding dong, the witch is dead.”
Banished from our memory,
like dementia on a pensioner.
Like the first rule of Fight Club, I can barely even mention her.
That’s “freedom of speech”, so no-one can jail me.
The depth of my loathing now such that words fail me.
But I do have to finish, I consider it my duty,
so I defer the last
verse to the band Death Cab for Cutie
Who put it succinctly in their song ‘Styrofoam
Plates’
the following definitive statement of hate.
They said, and I quote:
“You’re a disgrace to the concept of family
The priest won’t divulge the fact in his homily
But I’ll stand up and scream if the mourning remain quiet
You can deck out a lie in a suit, but I won’t buy it.
I won’t join the procession that’s speaking their peace,
Using five-dollar words while praising her integrity.
Just ’cos she’s gone, it doesn’t change the fact:
She was a bastard in life, thus a bastard in death.”
%20image.jpg)
C.C. 22/09/22
No comments:
Post a Comment