Stop all the clocks, cut off Big Ben,
Prevent PM’s Questions, we’ll have none of them.
Silence the protesters and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let a fly-pass circle overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message She is Dead,
Sing the hymns that were her greatest loves,
Let guardsmen wear black cotton gloves.
She squeezed the North, the South, the East and West,
The mines were axed, The Poor repressed.
She was Reagan’s love, his talk, his song,
We feared she’d last for ever: we were wrong.
The Tories are not wanted now, vote out every one
Pack up The Express and dismantle The Sun;
Pour away the tears and sweep up the wood –
Thatcherism is gone for good.
We sit cross-legged in the story corner
Breathing faint ammonia smells.
Table chants and hymns echo through corridor acoustics,
All creatures great and small.
We are wedged in a tangle of podgy thighs,
Grazed knees, scabs and warts.
And Anthony is sitting alone again
Where he can do no harm.
Yet he said he would bring it, and bring it he has.
Its tiny white head is nosing over
The hem of his pocket,
Whiskers a-twitch and
Eyes like tiny blood blisters ripe for popping.
A shudder of shivering whispers and
Nervous heads are half turned:
Yes, Anthony is smiling his special smile.
Mrs Lloyd has found the page,
My lids are squeezed tight
As I urge my mind to follow her away
From here, away from now.
For playtime will be murder once again.
And children drunk on
That Welsh picnic
Has lasted forty years
And will last forty more
And in nightmare.
The stream babbled
Brushed our sun-browned shins
Till the dead sheep
Slugged us in the guts.
Bloated and bulbous,
The body dammed the stream,
Its lifeless eyes
Crawling with life.
Those pearly marbles were
A child’s looking glass into death.
The pebbles we hurled
In reckless revulsion
Were the silent screams
Of violated youth,
And those dead sheep thuds
The dawning of our mortality.