[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!