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! [. . .]
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. [. . . ]
Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.
3 comments:
I didn't want to clog up the bases, I mean the front page, with the whole poem, so here are all 40 lines in their full AAAB glory!
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.
-----------------------
It's actually quite a nice explication of the whole show, if David Brent were a powerful smarmy boss instead of just a smarmy boss.
This is a damn fine poem. Not many poets can sustain one long sneer over forty lines--especially over forty ballad lines. And I don't recall ever seeing this crazy ass rhyme scheme, which I think is pretty awesome. You don't see many people hating modernity so much that he yearns for total annihilation.
OK, one more thing. My favorite stanza is now the 2nd one...the repetition of "tinned" is about as angry as a Brit can get. But its also extra funny if you imagine Navin R. Johnson (Steve Martin) screaming, "He hates these cans!"
cue the following clip to 1:23
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cMJgC0ZidLg
Remind me again who's abroad and who is stateside? I love that you got around to putting this up. Always pleasant to read the anti-ode. And apropos of nothing, I ran into Garrett, not Gareth, on the streets of southeast Dublin today. Uncanny!
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