Ant Smith

All poems

Maggie, Maggie, Maggie

Maggie, Maggie, Maggie
Dead, dead, dead
Maggie, Maggie, Maggie
Dead, dead, dead
Maggie
Dead
Maggie
Dead
Maggie, Maggie, Maggie
Dead, dead, dead

What kind of gruesome thing with tits
Would take the milk away from kids?
It churns my stomach when I think
Of her suckling little twins

Ah! Of moaning minnies she would sing
While she taxed every little thing
And battle ships she liked to sink
With her lizard sideways blink

Against minors, gypsies, working folk
She attacked our homes and our all hopes
Deployed her armies at our doors
Her democracy was settling scores

Thatcher's brutes they brutalised
Bruised and battered my good wife
But now she has a battle cry
Trafalgar's heroes saw you die!

Then in one final cruel blow
They're gonna burn her up you know
The final proof goes up in smoke
She died about a year ago

Hold the press, they've got some news
To bury deep along with you
Cameron's learned his lessons well
But still he'll join her down in hell

Maggie, Maggie, Maggie
Dead, dead, dead
Maggie, Maggie, Maggie
Dead, dead, dead
Maggie
Dead
Maggie
Dead
Maggie, Maggie, Maggie
Dead, dead, dead