Not especially versed in either ottava rima or iambic pentameter (today’s prompt), so I’m winging it—’cause that’s sort of what I do…
Ottava Rima for the Eighth;
Maggie Thatcher‘s dead.
The news doesn’t even cover our newest wraith,
so we’ll just take that as read.
Today’s just another test of our strength
in this crazy roller-coaster ride.
So we’ll just celebrate the day after you—
you don’t know how long we’ve been waiting for this, boo.
Protest songs being sung all day long;
nobody liked you, not even back then.
Thirty years later, we’re still singing these songs—
no need to remember back when.
Maybe now we can admit it wasn’t “right or wrong”,
carry on, and at least pretend that we’re friends.
Because now you and Ronnie are but grains in the earth,
both rotting away, for all that that’s worth.
I don’t mean to sound bitter—but, see, I remember back then.
Pershings stationed in the ground, pointing at the Reds.
One nation under a cruise, at the stroke of a political pen—
never mind the potential for millions and millions more dead.
It didn’t matter who were enemies, or who were friends,
all you cared about was what future history books read.
Now you’re in the same boat as all who came and went before;
quoth the raven, “Never more.”
(8 April 2013)