These all-embracing titles are a feature of the competition. I don't like them. They give you no clues. Practically anything could fit, really. Oh, and the chap doesn't like funnies much, which may partly account for my own lack of success.
Still. Faint heart never and all that. Here's a cutdown version of an old thing of mine.
Intelligence
We have made ourselves shelters, deep underground shelters
One hundred and fifty feet down,
Each the size of a house, and, at thirty-three thousand,
This counts as a fairly large town.
What we’ve got is an Oxford, an underground Oxford
Prepared in advance of the crisis:
Like the beat of a drum it will come: as shares plummet
With rising commodity prices
Which will trigger a slump in demand and the dumping
Of consequent overproductions,
Bringing general disquiet with rapine and riot
And other regrettable ructions.
I mean lootings and arsons, garrottings of parsons,
Gang-rapings of teachers and nuns,
Major terrorist strikes – you’ll have not seen the like
Since the sacking of Rome by the Huns.
It’s an old-fashioned way we could do with today
With your armies of Socialist Workers,
Who just sit on their bums, while rotating their thumbs
And convening committees of shirkers.
In the fret and the fuss when the bombs drop on us
Or, in truth, when the bombs drop on you,
With us safe underground there’ll be no one around
Who can tell you poor sods what to do!
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