I feel better today

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.

Why don't you just use me some more
The crack under the door speaks
I hate your mind
But hate only makes me blind
Purple waves with gold edges
Umbilical cord rot
Simple self projection
Horror at your thoughts of why
Little souls will scream in anger
Long after your dead
The clock ticks out
The world begs you to see
The brains closed down
In the sections of understanding
A hollowed tree an windy shell
Fill the void with cock-sucks and ale
bitter tones and slanted glare
it's your soul that fouls the air
Encroached our minds
Your mother loves
the part of you that you forget
Your boring choices
Insult your capacity for creativity
Your dull ache is nothing
We all have it,
you learn to love it all
But maybe not in this life
Your too fresh from the fall