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