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.

"Den"
Herald, 26 May 1937, p6
and
The Queenslander, 17 June 1937, p3