Dear Eleanor, I write to you, to expound a woe or two
My motive: boredom; as you know, FT is not enthralling so,
I write this poem line by line, In an attempt to pass the time

My problem is that Netherlandic Place that we don't like much and it
Seems that realistically we should bomb it ThermoNuclearly!
Thermonuclear Armageddon, it is my idea of heaven
We will bomb them green and red. We will bomb them dead dead dead.
There will be no Swedes left to steal all the men from me and you

They will be mine, they will be yours, They will not visit Swedish Fjords
They will not go there anytime, they will be yours they will be mine
And if perchance there comes a day, They flee and go there anyway
Looking for a Swedish blonde of whom they used to be quite fond,
If perchance it happens so, they will not like it when they go

The radiation all around will make them fall upon the ground
They will be ill they will be sick, their hair will fall out bit by bit
Their skin will peel, their blood will boil, (It might pour out upon the soil)
And chunks of flesh will rain around, upon that cursed Swedish ground

We will not mourn their sharp demise, We laugh at pain within their eyes
We giggle as they cry for help, we relish every tortured yelp.
We think back to the daya when we, were sobbing, heartfelt, mournfully
And take revenge with gleeful grin to see their pain and suffering

But wait! Another danger lies, (apart from that 'neath Swedish skies)
The second danger "Slapper" be, no more in height than four foot three
And yet for one so short entices quite a few with slapper vices
Free of heart and free of bed, she will not rest 'till she be dead
So I propose a radical answer, kill her, maim her, stab her, lance her.
Yes in short to inttroduce her to our friend the fission inducer!

Blow her into myriad bits, unmendable by man or witch
Sink her fragments in the fen. This should protect our straying men.
And so we come to the third trouble. Our last problem; the body double.

For men so vain 'tis not a sin, to be enraptured looking in
The mirror at ones image fair, (Perhaps with slightly different hair)
But what of us when they become siamese twins joined at the tongue?
'Tis obvious to solve this woe, that all the mirrors have to go.

Some would feel this could be done, by shooting mirrors with a gun
I fear that this would only shatter, mirrors leaving shards, the latter
Being sharp and shiny still, are sure to harm the mouths that will
Most probably return to find their images which lie behind

Oh no, we need a bigger gun. A larger and more powerful one
A gun that does not fire lead, the gun which killed the Swedes all dead.
A gun with more plutonium, a great big thermonuclear one.
We'll put the mirrors in a pile, and then with our inimitable style
We send our thermonuclear friend to take them to their sticky end.

The unforgiving heat will rise, and melt the glass before our eyes.
Destroying mirrors totally, by cooking thermonuclearly.
And thus the images will die, the men are saved for you and I!
Upon such time they will be yours, and, being no more Swedish fjords,
They will be mine, we reign supreme. No longer left to sit and dream
No longer think of could and should, but have and did, 'cause we're so good.

Dear Eleanor, to you I penned, my best and surely dearest friend
I have expanded all my woes, the day has come and been and goes
Our three problems have one solution, one exploding resolution
Men are saved for us alone, when radiation's been and gone.

What better answer could there be to problems summing up to three?
Thermonuclear Armageddon! All our woes the bomb will deaden
Mirrors gone and Swedes all dead, slapper left without her head
Men will love just me and you, when thermonuclear bombing's through.

Conclusion: There can be no failure. So let's bomb soon! Love from Michaela.