Two poems Celebrating the Death of Margaret Thatcher


Workshy

Dead.
A shell,
mad mind wiped.
Pale victory this.

Achieving,
only in death
what you laid
at the feet of the living.

Only,
there is no feeling
in your numbness,
and no futility
in your enforced idleness,

but,
finally,
here you lie, unemployed

and, at last,
we can agree,
It’s a price worth paying.

Dig for Victory

Ex-miners
were queuing up
to dig the dirt, today,
for old times’ sake
in lines as long as a
“Labour isn’t Working” poster.

All to share a shovel,
and to get the beloved earth
as far away from you as possible.

You stole our land,
but it won’t be coming with you.

So, bored
down you go
as far as the molten-cored
furnaces of forgotten steelmen:
past the whited heat of technology
where still, you do not melt;
past the heavy industries of Hell
to the solipsistic, empty heart of you.
And at the graveside
when the chill wind blows
in Society’s eyes
it promises not to cry.

Orgreave.

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