Let Pinochet circle moaning overhead
With Reagan he scribbles the news: She Is Dead.
Put crepe nooses round the white necks of the ailing,
As her private health dreams left an NHS failing.
She cut my pay, my jobs, my milk and she maxed,
My working week and my local poll tax.
We walked we marched we campaigned with song;
She thought her power would last for ever: she was wrong.
The fights are still wanted now: we call every one;
To pack up the Mail and dismantle the Sun;
Pour away the rich takers and lift up the poor,
On our hope and our future she’ll not close the door.