Jarvis says: "Last year, there was much debate as to whether or not Margaret Thatcher's death would warrant a state funeral or not. I asked the writer David Peace to compose a poem on the subject. Peace wrote it in the style of WH Auden's Funeral Blues."
Here it is, published for the first time ... "
A Prediction for the Year 2009
by David Peace
One fine and awful day, thirty years too late, in a full and empty Abbey,
to a society that is no society, a great and stupid man, he says:
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out her coffin, let the mourners come –
For Maggie, Maggie, Maggie is dead, dead, dead.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message She is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves –
For Maggie, Maggie, Maggie is dead, dead, dead.
She was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song:
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong –
For Maggie, Maggie, Maggie is dead, dead, dead.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good –
For Maggie, Maggie, Maggie is dead,
dead,
dead.
Now suddenly, as if by magick, the doors of the Abbey swing open wide
and a corpse down the aisle he strides, followed by another, and
another, and another; the great British people resurrected, they shout:
Start all the clocks, re-nationalize the phones,
Give back to us dogs our juicy bones,
Strike the piano and bang the drum
Scatter her bones and let the morning come –
Now Maggie, Maggie, Maggie is dead, dead, dead.
Let yer aeroplanes circle cheering overhead
Scribbling on the sky their message She is Dead,
But there'll be crepe nooses round the necks of all you leaders,
For our gloves are off and so now you will heed us –
Now Maggie, Maggie, Maggie is dead, dead, dead.
For WE are your North, your South, your East and West,
A once working week for your Sunday rest,
Your noon, your midnight, your talk, your song:
You thought hate would last for ever: you were wrong –
Now Maggie, Maggie, Maggie is dead, dead, dead.
And the stars are here now, but they are every one,
So stop all this mooning and bring back the sun,
Pour away our tears and mop up our blood;
For nothing now can ever stop The Good –
Now Maggie, Maggie, Maggie is dead, dead, dead,
Maggie! Dead! Maggie! Dead!
Maggie, Maggie, Maggie – she is dead,
dead,
dead.
communicator commentary -
I like the sentiment. I think it's a poem somewhat lacking in confidence in its own voice. He could have been more ruthless with the original, which everyone knows already.