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On Target

A poem beginning with Betjeman’s words: ‘Come heavenly bombs and fall on…’


Come heavenly bombs and fall on flies!

Their irksome buzzing stupefies

All sense, so hasten their demise

And pulverise the lot!


Their vile proboscises protrude

And, being creatures coarse and crude,

They spit saliva on our food

Along with heaven knows what!


Oh for a world with flies deceased.

They serve no purpose in the least

Except to pester man and beast

And give us endless grief.


Sweet missiles spring one last surprise:

Rain down in mercy from the skies

And blast away these frightful flies

To bring us all relief!

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