The Thatcher Years

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
You either love her or hate her.

Submitted: April 18, 2013

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Submitted: April 18, 2013



No poppies for madam

 that privilege is reserved

for the common man.

Drape her coffin with Union jack

though there is no union for me.


Your guard of honour is expecting you,

made from the empty shell of boys

who left their dreams on Falkland hill.


This life that you once held

 will be remembered . 

The miner’s bones will see your corpse

for death came to them with broken heart,

their blood was washed away

and community was lost of hope

In the weeping’s of a crying pit.


The taste of rabbit stew

still stays upon my lips,

for I shared my bread with neighbours,

while boys in blue waved five pound notes

and beat their shields in rhyme,

 for they were truly, Maggie’s whores.


This common man seeks redemption for you

but forgiveness is for God to give.

These pearly gates that your spirit seeks

among the hymns that praise this earth

are but remnants of the pit gates

and in their rust they are jammed shut to you.


The chosen few were Maggie’s men

 their daggers have been cleaned of blood.

The wits will praise your passing,

A final toast to Caesar,

“she came, she saw, she conquered”

but in truth they know,

the evils of today still carry your mark.


Iron lady your soul will seek the light

But your light went out long ago

during the Devils reign.

Lost in the furnace of men

lost in the pride of England.


And now your service has ended

redundancy killed you too.

Your victories have gone into history

but Steel and coal

and the grafters of England

will never forgive you.








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