Mistaken Identity

I know you don't I, you're that woman,
the one with the handbag. I couldn't drive on,
without telling you: you've wrecked my life
and not just mine. Your damage will ricochet
down through generations to come. And you,
a mother, too. Helicopters won't find my son
when he's lost. Yet be sure, your royal 'we'
won't protect you from a nation's curses.
Long after you're gone, your name
will be synonymous with destruction.

I've never said this to a living sole, not even my ex,
but I hate you. Hate you for what you've done:
turning 'us' into 'me and mine', wrecking
communities. Well, I must get on,
people to see, places to go, indignities
to endure at the Job Centre.

Hang on, you're very quiet; not like Mrs T
on Newsnight.  Lordy, I'm sorry, I thought you were
her. It's happened before? And you're proud to say
you're her number one fan? Well, just wait 'til
her policies impact your life; then you'll need
some sympathy, a new narrative and a way out
of your pride, of your mistaken identity.