Margaret Thatcher's Brief Stint As A Poet

The year is 1984. Big Brother isn't in charge, Margaret Thatcher is. This scene occurs in 10 Downing Street on a crisp summer evening.
"What you writing there Maggie, some sort of official Prime Minister related document or something?" asks one of Margaret's aides as he enters her private study.
"What? Oh....erm....yeah that's exactly it. Some new law....or something."
"Well that's quite complicated business Maggie, you can't just pass new laws willy-nilly," he says as he approaches her desk, which is directly in front of a wide window displaying a picturesque orange sunset over the London skyline.
".....Maggie why is this new law written in...stanzas?..........Is that iambic pentameter?"
"No! Fuck no. That's for wimps. It's an incredibly harsh but efficient new policy or law or whatever."
"I don't think it is. In fact, it seems to be riddled with whimsical rhyming couplets."
"Don't be such a fucking idiot you cunt. Shut up." Maggie says, and attempts to tuck the scented paper away in a drawer but her aide is too quick. He's taller than her so he holds it above her and begins to read.
"Oh, London! Cruel and beautiful master, with your marble-white buildings..."
"Give it back you sodding cunt!" she cries as she reaches for it.
"I am but a slave to your bustle, your unique hum...."
"It was a fucking joke anyway! London's a shit, I hate it. Can't you tell a joke when you fucking well see one? I just caused the miner's strike for Christ's sake, I hate poetry and all nice things. GIVE IT BACK."

You can probably guess that after this altogether traumatising event Margaret Thatcher never indulged in poetry again. 'Tis a shame though, because no mortal soul should be deprived of their need to express themselves. Except for possibly Victoria Beckham, who insists on every form of her expression being really quite awful. Silly old girl!
I feel as if I've only criticised women thus far so perhaps I should criticise a man.
My Chemical Romance singer..........twat? Yep.