Here's my last-minute attempt. Since it doesn't abide by the sensible advice earlier in the thread, to stick to Betjeman's stanza-pattern, it's maybe not in with a chance, but I enjoyed writing it anyway.
Come friendly bombs, and fall on Albert Square,
Where life becomes more cheesy than Gruyere
As scripting hacks probe lazily the 'issues'
That get the simple reaching for their tissues.
Fall, bombs, on matriarchs and feckless men,
On Beales and Butchers, Mo and Dot and Den,
For all speak clichés from the cheapest shelf:
'Babe, he ain't worth it,' and 'Don't blame yourself.'
They whinge and weep, and have affairs, and fight,
And (arguments being easiest to write)
Spend half their lives in crass factitious quarrels,
In plotlines patly pointing P.C. morals.
So fall, bombs, fall, till not one single brick
Remains of that unlovely hole, the Vic.
Then, when the devastation is complete,
Head northwards, please, to Coronation Street.
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