Dear Mr Brezhnev, I know you’re deceased,
As is your mate Mr Nixon
The two of you saw that the world was policed
With a dollop of nuclear friction.
I would stand at my window and look to the East
Expecting the missiles of doom
But that wasn’t the worst of it, not in the least
As I stood there alone in my room.
After some time I’d convince my poor brain
That the world would survive one more day
Then I’d climb into bed feeling physically drained
And sometimes I might even pray.
And I’m just getting warm, and I start to relax
As my eyes are beginning to close
But my rational thinking is showing some cracks
And there’s ice on the end of my toes.
I leap out of bed, and I look to the West
Now I’m waiting for missiles from Nixon
And I’m freezing to death and incredibly stressed
I think I may have an affliction.
I glance to the East again, changing my mind
Being bombed by the Yanks doesn’t sit well
But it seems, Mr Brezhnev, that you weren’t inclined
To waste any weapons on Whitwell.
After what seems like hours I get back into bed
And I try not to think radiation
Though I’m still not convinced that you don’t want me dead
Which causes me great trepidation.
Perhaps it’s all over, and London’s no more
And Moscow and New York and Rome
And nothing will be as it had been before
Though I seem to be safe here at home.
So I start to nod off, Mr Brezhnev, I’m going
Now I’m sure you won’t kill me tonight
And I think I can sleep well, now that I’m knowing
The risk of explosion is slight.
I’m nodding off now and my breathing has slowed
My anxiety’s less keenly felt
As my nuclear worries all start to offload
And the ice on my toes starts to melt.
I’m going, I’m nodding, I’m starting to doze
My heart rate is somewhat diminished
And now there’s some feeling once more in my toes
And my Russian anxiety’s finished.
Then suddenly: BANG! There’s a new kid in town
The sockets downstairs are ablaze
We are all going to die, for the house will burn down
Why does death come in so many ways?
So I sneak out of bed and down two flights of stairs
Taking care to avoid all the creaks
If there were a God he would answer my prayers
I’ve been doing this nonsense for weeks.
So I check in the kitchen, the sitting room too
Though I know this obsession is folly
And I climb the stairs quietly, two steps by two
Convinced that I’m quite off my trolley.
THE HOSTESS TROLLEY: DEAR GOD ABOVE
Now the dining room’s all of a blaze
So I’m off down the stairs again: just one final check
It’s madness – I hope it’s a phase.
It wasn’t of course, I’m still lying awake
And inclined to obsessively think
It’s not an addiction that I can forsake
Except with the help of the drink.
So you see Mr Brezhnev, it wasn’t your fault
(Though we don’t need those nuclear rockets)
My worryguts thinking won’t come to a halt
Banning bombs or electrical sockets.
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