Crack Thatch

Yo this ain’t ya nanny’s Thatcher—this the fried-out Iron Lady, bussin through the void on rainbow fumes of deregulated drip, mumbling something about Milton Crackman while squeezin’ that monetarism accordion like it’s gonna drop GDP bars. Her smoke shaped like the pound but she spent it all on fetty confetti. She forgot what she was doin’ mid-sonnet, now she’s just hummin’ policy lullabies to the ghost of Reagan in a rave of austerity shadows. Ain’t no society—just vibes and vapor. AMERICRACK dot mothercrumpin com.