Come, friendly bombs, and fall on
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a
Swarm over,
Death!
Come, bombs, and blow to
Those air-conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned
Tinned minds, tinned breath.
Mess up the mess they call a town —A house for ninety-seven
And once a week for
For twenty years,
And get that man with double
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive
In women's tears,
And smash his desk of polished
And smash his hands so used to
And stop his boring dirty
And make him yell.
But spare the bald young clerks who
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.
It's not their fault they do not
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often
To
And talk of sports and makes of
In various bogus Tudor
And daren't look up and see the
But belch instead.
In labour-saving homes, with
Their wives frizz out peroxide
And dry it in synthetic
And paint their nails.
Come, friendly bombs, and fall on
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.
