I cursed the day that you were born.

I waited, breath baited, for your last to be drawn.

 

I’d always imagined that when the day came.

I’d celebrate your demise with the finest champagne.

 

That on the day you laid down and died.

There’d be joy in my heart and a spring in my stride.

 

I’d throw my hands high in the air and wave.

I’d skip through the streets to dance on your grave.

 

There’d be a popping of corks from the Forth to the Dee.

Colliery choirs would sing a sweet rhapsody.

 

When the news broke, I prayed it wasn’t a rumour.

But all I felt was regret, that you hadn’t died sooner.

 

Disappointed that after all the damage you’d done.

You lived out your life before shuffling on.

 

A frail old woman when you met your demise

Not the lady of iron I’d come to despise

 

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