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 mines, tinned bread.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 bold 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 bird-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 don'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, and earth exhales.And the plough goes on, and on, and on, And on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on.