Gedbhoy, who has written one or two poems for the site before, sent us this. It is excellent. Take some time to read it, and savour it.
A Poem for the Death of Thatcher
When Thatcher dies, I’ll close my eyes and take some time to send,
a thought on how she lived her life and how she met her end.
I’ll offer up to lifeless skies a final contemplation,
of one who crucified a land through mad determination.
I’ve waited for this news so long, my patience has been tried.
But now the day and hour has come: she’s dead and I’m alive.
I’ve waited years for happy news of final destination.
The single trip of one who ruled with spite and desperation.
I hope she likes her lonely boat to where the fallen dwell.
I hope the hinges do not squeak when close the gates of Hell.
I know it will be warm down there, for Satan has his pride.
He lights an incandescent flame, for friends of his who’ve died.
He likes to keep the fires stoked and burning night and day.
His daemons work with strength and zest to keep the cold at bay.
They love their job; they toil with glee, down in the constant gloom.
They’ll make sure Margaret doesn’t chill when cloistered in her tomb.
She’ll have the warmth to ponder long on all her schemes and lies.
The daemons never dim the flames, for they weren’t privatised.
So farewell Iron Lady now: your memories are black.
The Gates of Hades firmly shut: the Devil wants you back.
The Hounds of Hell are on their mark: they’re restless for a run.
They haven’t fed since Reagan came: they’re pining for the gun.
With luck a creeping fear will call, and chill your very soul.
A dread like those you sent abroad when killing steel and coal.
So taste the air that Satan shares, and peer into the gloom.
The dogs of war are on your scent: they’ll rush you to your doom.
Don’t try to leave, for this is home: don’t try to dodge or run.
The pups are only passing shades of cruelties you’ve done.
The viciousness deep in your heart: the well of poisoned thoughts.
They came with you as company for Lucifer’s dark sports.
I’d like to offer you some hope, some dream of charity.
Some recompense for how you looked on our society.
Oh dear, it seems you haven’t much writ down that stands for good.
You weren’t as nice, when Tory boss as fate says that you should.
An iron heel, on iron boot: an iron will so strong.
A people longing for some hope ‘gainst punishments so long.
But kindness wasn’t in your heart: you lusted for the fight.
You swept away all that was good, and turned our day to night.
So fiendish canines, do your work: I hope your teeth are keen.
Give her the quarter she gave us: and nothing in between.
So snap and grind and yelp and bawl and bite and tear and munch.
We veterans of Thatcher’s fight are sure you’ll like your lunch.
She gave us greed and selfishness: she taught us wrong was right.
She gave us generations new, who didn’t give a light.
But that is gone. Your dreams are done: regained our will to think.
The Reaper’s polished off his work: from him you could not shrink.
I hope he smiled when you breathed last, I hope his scythe was slow.
I hope you cried, when in his eyes you saw where you would go.
One final laugh, one final sound, his striking blade does peal.
Farewell from all of us you scorned: it’s forged from Scottish steel.