Mr.Thatcher

So, I was reading through old emails and being nostalgic as shit, when I stumbled across a poem I had to write for year 11 english class, fitting into a "The World's Wife" kind of format. My poem was/is about Margaret Thatcher, and as far as I can recall, I did actually read the last line out (we had to present the poems to the class). So with out further ado, here is some shitty poetry:

Mr.Thatcher:

She was always putting down.
Nagging hound.
She’d bite and bark
Bitch and moan.

And that was just the dinner conversation.
There was always a meeting the next morning,
and always something else to do.

The poor are poor because they’re lazy and stupid
Then she would sit in her office all day
Sipping the finest chardonnay.
Only she wouldn’t know chardonnay from cabaret.

But, my god could she talk.
For hours on end, she would go on
Never actually saying a word mind you
But merely creating the illusion she did.

Dinner took hours to get through.
And that’s another thing,
She never cooked,
She expected a plate,
With the head of the labor unions,
At exactly a quarter past eight,
And not a second more.

Less, and less for the poor.
Yet whenever she need new clothes,
Or another behemoth to wrap
around her neck
It was always my wallet
That was empty
Never hers.

But her four story houses,
And cities of money,
And her friends that were runts,
Making her all the more deserving
Of the title:

“Insufferable cunt”