A poem

I saw this poem in a book entitled  "Poetry of the Thirties" and just had to put it on here! It's by John Betjeman and was written in 1937 (well, that's what the copyright says!)

Slough

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 sports and makes of cars

In various bogus Tudor bars

And daren't look up to 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.