https://x.com/JoshEakle/status/1736439659230552553

  • GalaxyBrain [they/them]
    ·
    11 months ago

    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 a 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 sport 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.

    • GalaxyBrain [they/them]
      ·
      edit-2
      11 months ago

      This is a poem by John Betjamin and he unfortunately later apologized for it. I should give credit lest Harry bomberguy come to my house in the dead of night