Sixty million people
lay on their beds
Sipping cheap vodka from a
Pink-stained fingerprint smudged
Oversized wineglass
With the TV on Strictly
As they march on.
Sixty million people
Died in their beds
Clutching strands of hair in the
Bones of their dirt-stained
Discontinued house
When the bomb went off
As they marched through.
Sixty million people
Swirl round our heads
As we dance in the deadly fog,
wearing nuclear fall-out things
In a black-out field,
As a blacked-out sky closes in
At least I get to dance with you.
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