Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
 It isn't fit for humans now,
 There isn't grass to graze a cow
   Swarm over, Death!

 Come, bombs, and blow to smithereens
 Those air-conditioned, bright canteens,
 Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans
   Tinned minds, tinned breath.

 Mess up the mess they call a town --
 A house for ninety-seven down
 And once a week for half-a-crown
   For twenty years,

 And get that man with double chin
 Who'll always cheat and always win,
 Who washes his repulsive skin
   In women's tears,

 And smash his desk of polished oak
 And smash his hands so used to stroke
 And stop his boring dirty joke
   And make him yell.

 But spare the bald young clerks who add
 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 know
 The birdsong from the radio,
 It's not their fault they often go
   To Maidenhead

 And talk of sports and makes of cars
 In various bogus Tudor bars
 And daren't look up and see the stars
   But belch instead.

 In labour-saving homes, with care
 Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
 And dry it in synthetic air
   And paint their nails.

 Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
 To get it ready for the plough.
 The cabbages are coming now;
   The earth exhales.