(after Horace Ode 1.37 Nunc est bibendum)
At last we breathe a huge sigh of relief.
Now let’s sit back and watch the fun and games.
Time to stock committee rooms with claret:
till lately just one glass was out of reach,
the birch-keen crazy woman saw to that.
Power-mad, she tanked-up on the Falklands
then with her rotten cronies took our capital,
and poll-taxed poor pensioners and poets.
Now she’s brought to heel: (though having once
survived like Cleopatra and her ships),
rejected by her own, a sober thought,
she sees the proper battle on her hands.
While in the wings the hawkish Michael waits
to peck this honourable monster carcass clean.
But the Carlton Club’s most honorary member
stares her crushed society in the face.
She chose her poison, took it like a man
enjoyed defeat and didn’t do a U-turn.
The media didn’t march the Iron Lady
before us as a rusty washed-up has-been.