Margaret in Leather


She wears leather flares,
and fashionable loafers,
St Theresa of the nation
reclines on her sofa:
She’ll stretch for the Saudis,
the ones who arm-deal,
she ensures they crave missiles,
she sells righteous thrills.
Sniff her crossed thighs,
calf-sweated, hide-moist;
she has Thatcher’s eyes,
she has Margaret’s voice.
St Theresa will command
her ministerial messrs,
they’ll bow to her cries,
‘cos she wears the trousers.


 

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