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Or: How I learned to stop worrying and rhyme the bomb
When the general's got an urge to drop a bomb on Khazakstan
and the British wing-commander doesn't really understand
about the purity of essence and the water underground --
then the base is on alert and all the planes are long outbound!
You want bombs, sir,
I've got brains here!
You want nukes there
we've got planes near ...
... where the Politburo thinks there's something nasty in the air
The pinko commie message wakes a rabid Russian bear.
General Ripper's told to lay off but he doesn't really care
'cause his base is on alert and all his men have flown elsewhere.
You want war, sir,
we'll start one here!
No fallout to fear --
It's all in Russia, over there!
On the biggest Boeing bomber there's a pilot with a plot
the tail-gunner's drinking beer, he's drunken as a sot
the captain's got a stetson but the mission plan is lost,
the bombardier's abandoned fear: he's got a bomb to drop.
You want bunkers, sir,
We'll dig one, there!
No need for sex, sir,
We'll clone ourselves! Yeah!
There's tension in the pentagon and fighting in the street:
the Russian consul's underground, the President to meet.
The bomber's crossed the frontier and its comms are up the creek;
for any lower stakes this fine game would be hard to beat.
Strangelove's strange hand
Strains hard, speaks RAND
Corporation studies speak of rungs and operands --
in the prisoner's dillemma which has gotten out of hand
When the polonium initiator's in the tamber piece
the slow neutrons are cascading, instantaneous release
the Teller-Ullam pit is about to deflagrate
and the secondary fission follows milliseconds late
We have facilities to build a thousand year redoubt
To last until the fallout fades, it's safe to venture out.
A hundred generations of subterranean destiny --
And all because the general felt an urge to world war three.
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