Slough

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough
It isn't fit for humans now
There isn't grass to graze a cow
Sworn over dead

Come bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air-conditioned bright canteens
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans
Tinned minds, tinned breath
And stuff the mess they call a town
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown

For twenty years

And get that man with double chin
Who 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
And spare the boardroom 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 birds' song 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

It's not their fault they do not know
The birds' song 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