Woman who taught the food industry to sell air to children dies: Margaret Thatcher poem

Look upon my works, ye poor and vulnerable, and despair.

The Baroness hung on until the new financial year, took a look around at the devastation, said, “My work is done,” and expired.

It was Margaret Thatcher who sold off our utilities, which is why our electricity, gas, water and rail are in run by private business (and not even British companies) with the inevitable profiteering and everything that entails.

Large swathes of former public housing stock are now in the hands of private landlords whose soaring rents are subsidised by the public purse.

She would have made the poorest pay the same poll tax as millionaires. British manufacturing was plunged into steep decline. A man’s woman (eyes of Caligula, lips of Marilyn Monroe, and ankles that fed Alan Clarke’s masturbatory fantasies), she notoriously failed to advance the rights of women.

The great fillip to her failing first term as prime minister came from an unnecessary war over the Falklands/Malvinas Islands on the South American continental shelf.

She denied there was such a thing as society and introduced the law of the jungle where it’s the survival of the fittest with the winner taking all.

She was not a positive force in any sense of what a civilisation is supposed to be for its citizens.

Here is a poem.

Thatcher is dead

Margaret Thatcher died at the Ritz.
It fits.
Her blitz on the poor,
national assets thrust in the mitts
of corporate bandits.
Wealth trickled-down like a horse shits
undigested grain for birds that flit
round what its rear end emits.
Compassion deficit, dried out tits,
the country in bits, run by greedy gits.
Her fans omit the human price
of crimes her class commit.
Her legacy is the pits.
And she closed them as well.

Another poem, this one from Red Mike.

Glenn Greenwald: Margaret Thatcher and misapplied death etiquette