A Crappy Little Sonnet About The Thatcher

I'm warming up to write something actually good - &, as I often do on such occasions, I've run off a little warmuppoem. Thus:

Shalt I Compare You To A Beast Who Brays?

Shalt I compare these to a beast who brays
for blood, blood, blood, cannibalisticly?
You're more complex, minotaur. Moral maze-
-s wrap round you. Round us. Politically.

You are a human being. A woman.
A thing of flesh & bones & blood & skin.
I can't see you quite like that, can I? Can
I peel of the Spitting mask & look in?

Behind the Iron Curtain? I'm trying.
But did you ever try, Mrs Thatcher?
To understand the dispossessed, dying 
losers whose lives you ran to capture?

A failed meeting of minds, I'm afraid, dear.
You are the holder for our hate this year.