‘Slough’ by John Betjeman

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!
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Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.
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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.
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And get that man with double chin
Who’ll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women’s tears:
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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.
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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.
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It’s not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It’s not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead
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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.
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In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.
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Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.