For Mrs T on the day of her funeral with nods to Auden and Shakespeare
She was my South,
my Basildon and Essex.
She was my white van week, my sunday screws
my house, my pub, my dosh, my booze.
I thought that love would last for ever
climbing to heaven on the never never.
But she bet the country on the banks
in the end- just tissue and porny wanks.
Stop, stop all the clocks
let the mourners come
where full fathom five the Belgrano lies
and Matias,Lucas,Ignacio hourly ring her knell.