Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough! <br />It isn't fit for humans now, <br />There isn't grass to graze a cow. <br />Swarm over, Death! <br /> <br />Come, bombs and blow to smithereens <br />Those air -conditioned, bright canteens, <br />Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans, <br />Tinned minds, tinned breath. <br /> <br />Mess up the mess they call a town- <br />A house for ninety-seven down <br />And once a week a half a crown <br />For twenty years. <br /> <br />And get that man with double chin <br />Who'll always cheat and always win, <br />Who washes his repulsive skin <br />In women's tears: <br /> <br />And smash his desk of polished oak <br />And smash his hands so used to stroke <br />And stop his boring dirty joke <br />And make him yell. <br /> <br />But spare the bald young clerks who add <br />The profits of the stinking cad; <br />It's not their fault that they are mad, <br />They've tasted Hell. <br /> <br />It's not their fault they do not know <br />The birdsong from the radio, <br />It's not their fault they often go <br />To Maidenhead <br /> <br />And talk of sport and makes of cars <br />In various bogus-Tudor bars <br />And daren't look up and see the stars <br />But belch instead. <br /> <br />In labour-saving homes, with care <br />Their wives frizz out peroxide hair <br />And dry it in synthetic air <br />And paint their nails. <br /> <br />Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough <br />To get it ready for the plough. <br />The cabbages are coming now; <br />The earth exhales.<br /><br />John Betjeman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/slough/
