[Jerome Betts]

Wot, is there no Spherean silver-tongued Melicert to lay a wreath of lampoon and doggerel on the bier of the battling baroness? If nothing else, think of the inevitable competition!


O grocer’s daughter, Iron Lady,
Or Boadicea, Ronnie’s veep.
Whose record’s not a little shady,
Whose mind seemed strong, but hardly deep,
Who trusted good old Whitelaw, Willie,
To warn you when to look, not leap,
But got the poll tax wrong, and Chile,
And sold our silver off dirt-cheap,
The Blessed Margaret, or Tina,
Who closed the mines, but saved the sheep
Malignant dea ex machina
Who sowed so much we’ve still to reap,
Your name will surely cause a ding-dong
Near Wren’s impressive pile or heap
And live for years in Munchkin sing-song
Mixed up with that of Meryl Streep!

[Royston Vasey]

This lady's not for turning when
The country's full of facile men
Who need a woman's touch to teach
Them practice what you darned-well preach.

I'll sort the men out from the boys
And sack the former, make some noise
About our Winter's Discontent
(That Arthur Scargill's heaven-sent).

And what will history make of me?
I reckon it will come to see
That what I did or did not do
Won't cause me much concern, adieu.

[John Whitworth]

I'm not well-read enough. Which poets are those last two? Sorry, I did not realise this was a thread all by itself.

[Nigel Mace]

Come off it fellow Spherians. This ghastly blight upon our world is not worthy of your craft. As the bard had it, " A halter, gratis. Nothing else for God's sake!" There are literally millions of people whose lives she destroyed, all of whom are more worthy of our efforts.

[Brian Allgar]

(Pace Nigel, no effort was required on my part - it's a leftover from an Oldie competition.)

We urged you all to buy the house you rented
And start a little business of your own,
For interest rates were low, inflation dented,
And everyone could well afford the loan.
But shortly afterwards, we thought it best
To let the interest rates insanely rocket;
Businesses folded, homes were repossessed -
We stole the pound you thought was in your pocket.

“People must stand upon their own two feet!”,
We cried. “We’ll not support lame ducks!”
Yet, seeing all the homeless in the street,
Although they said I couldn’t give two fucks
If suicide’s their sole escape from debt,
Or greedy, ruthless banks should plunder them,
I sometimes felt a twinge of faint regret
For having shot their feet from under them.