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The Death of Baroness Thatcher
(who resigned on November 22, 1990)
after Patricia McGuigan and Alexander Pope
Her hair was a headmistress dreaming
of again being allowed to use the cane.
Her ambition was a brass door knocker
on what was once a council house.
Her brain was a conversation about money
Sir Keith Joseph had with himself.
Her back passage was Basil Fawlty
complaining about car strikes to the Major.
The look in her eyes was a shoot to kill policy
in Northern Ireland.
Her sentimentality was a spinster’s thimble
in which you could fit what’s left of the Tory Party
in Scotland, Liverpool, Manchester,
Leeds, Sheffield, Newcastle...
Her clenched fist was a skinhead
in nothing but Union Jack Y-fronts.
She said the word “Europe”
like a woman coming down
from a severe overdose of Brussels Sprouts.
Her Christmases were dinner at Chequers
with a recently deceased sex offender.
Her “out,” “no,” “never”
were striking print workers
being given the cat of nine tails.
Her fingers and thumbs
were ten riot shields in a row.
Her final nightmare
was the silent, black eyed ghosts
of Joe Green and David Jones,
who did nothing but each offer her
a hand.