Apocalypso

Sing ho! for the A-bomb melody

It merrily whistles down on me

I'm wrapped in silver foil

My blood is on the boil

B-52s flutter coyly

All I want is a flat in Berkeley Square

With colour TV set, reclining chair

Big box of Suchard for me to devour

Antique grandfather clock, phone in the shower

Hurrah! For the missiles from heaven's gate

They syncopate gaily in seven eight

I mambo to the sound

Of Martels, air-to-ground

I hear the baying of bloodhounds

All I require is a Rolls Royce Corniche

Cocktail cabinet for the nouveaux riches

Persian carpets and Van Goghs in the boot

Cardin three-piece beneath my Noddy suit

Hip! hip! for machine gun, breve and rest

It beats out a rhythm in my chest

Crotchets in my belly

Turn my legs to jelly

Quavers are F sharp and L, G

All I desire is a Swiss bank account

Given an OBE and made a Count

Country estate with a resident staff

Acute angina and an epitaph