Thatcher in hell




When I got to Hell's gate
They told me : Thatcher, cry
Your place is on the grate
Where all the preachers fry.


Miners yelled in the hall,
I was shocked and surprised
To see them unload coal
With their glee undisguised,


Each dispatching his lot
In fires that never fade,
And soon I turned red-hot
Since I am iron-made.


I saw not far away,
Both already well done,
My dear Pinochet
and my old friend Reagan.


Then the lord of the place
Made a quick inspection,
But strutting at such pace
He heard not my lection,


This advice from his friends :
Hell should be privatised,
And its army of fiends
Severely downsized.



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