Bomb Shelter Blues
The bomb shelter janitor with chest disease
sips tepid tea between each sneeze
His cash-register-ribs rattle, and his knees
are castanettes, his fingers ex-piano keys
He nurses himself through his complaint-
He´s peeling away like old station paint:
And 'The Megadeath Weekly' screams into his face
"Your world's a radio-active trash can of waste." (oh yeah!)

  & in the aftermath of nuclear overkill
  when the hunter no longer comes home from the hill
  all he has left is his precious soul
  & a chance, yes a chance, one more chance
  to rock, rock and roll.

Outside a thousand doll factories
are spewing their rejects into the sea
It's a toyland-blowlamp catastrophe
With angeldust become Strontium 90
And the janitor recalls in epileptic starkness
Finding his old Aunt Rhoda spread across the kitchen wall
And she had said "Oh, the silly things'll miss us"
He had said "They've more than enough bombs for us all" (oh yeah)