The furnaces were roaring
With a foul and sulphurous smell
The damned were being tortured –
Just another day in Hell.
The air was full of ghastly screams
And soul-destroying moans
When above the dreadful clamour
Rose some shrill suburban tones…
‘So messy! And so smelly!
And so awfully, awfully hot!
And all you do is torture –
That puts nothing in the pot!
I’ll close down all your furnaces
Your unproductive ways
And build a brand new call centre –
A Purgatory that pays!’
The Devil dropped his pitchfork
And put on his coat and hat.
‘I don’t mind facing Jesus
But I can’t compete with that!’
But the damned and all the goblins
Pleaded ‘Lucifer, don’t go!’
Stay and help us in our fight –
Better the Devil that we know!’
So they voted him shop steward
And he led a demonstration
While Thatcher glared and tutted
In mad, impotent frustration.
Then they made some massive banners
In huge letters: ‘COAL NOT DOLE’!
‘NOT ONE SINGLE FURNACE CLOSURE!’
‘GO TO HEAVEN, TORY TROLL!’
Now Tomas de Torquemada
Held a centuries-old position
As editor of Hell’s newspaper:
The Daily Inquisition.
So Thatcher went to him and said
‘I need some press support.
It always does my bidding.
Here’s some text for your report!’
But Tomas said ‘Can’t help you –
‘Cos, Satan, he’s my mate!
You know I’ve served him faithfully
Since 1498…’
So she yelled upstairs to Murdoch:
‘Rupert, time for you to die!
I need you down here urgently!’
But there was no reply.
Then the Devil came in glory
Brian Clough at his right hand
And in tones to shatter marble
He roared: ‘Margaret, you are banned!
Hell’s a worker-run collective
Self-sufficient, closely-knit.
We don’t need your poxy meddling.
I condemn you to the pit!
But, first, I’ll reunite you
With the one you love the most.
He was hiding in the coal hole.
He was dressed up as a ghost.
Said he DIDN’T WANT to see you!
Said to PLEASE keep him away!
But you’re here now, aren’t you, Denis?
Bid your lady wife good day…..
They were loaded in the lift shaft
And soon they were gone from sight
And heading for an awful place
Of pain and endless night
And you’re not going to believe this
‘Twas such awful, rotten luck –
But half way down the endless pit
The Thatchers’ lift got stuck…
So fight for social justice
And build a better world
And bury her foul legacy
With red banners unfurled
And heed the final message
Of this cautionary verse
Or you could end up like Denis.
I can think of nothing worse.
Attila the Stockbroker
