According to the cables, roofs are now painted in Spain to suit one's political opinions. If a bombing airman does not happen to like the colour of a roof, he drops a bomb on it.
I wonder what the world will be In forty years, in fifty years? Last night a sad dream came to me To plague my soul. For it appears As dreams will do, I built a home Whose roof I stained a pretty brown. When over it there happed to soar An aeroplane that Russians bore And blew the whole thing down. I rallied and rebuilt my shack. (I did not care for color schemes) And stained the roof an ebon black ('Tis strange how things appear in dreams). Then over it a Russian flew And with a high-explosive shell My home in smithereens he blew, He hated that Italian hue So I said "Very well." And so, I built another hut Whose roof I stained a ruby red; And thought, "Now I have harbour," but Another man flew over head And rained his ruin on my home And scattered death till I Had no resource from out the sky And not a place to roam. Eventually, torn with fright, I built me many rooves -— Tartan, bright yellow, crimson bright -— But fate met all my moves Until, at last, in dull despair A last resort I found -— The ultimate resource of man -— I hit upon a clever plan And got me underground.
|Copyright © Perry Middlemiss 2011|