Broadcasting the night before last. . . . Met there a Pole who has only recently escaped from Poland by some underground route he would not disclose. . . . He said that in the siege of Warsaw 95 per cent of the houses were damaged and about 25 per cent demolished. All services, electricity, water, etc., broke down, and towards the end people had no defence whatever against the aeroplanes and, what was worse, the artillery. He described people rushing out to cut bits off a horse killed by shell-fire, then being driven back by fresh shells, then rushing out again. When Warsaw was completely cut off the people were upheld by the belief that the English were coming to help them, rumours all the while of an English army in Danzig, etc. etc. . .
The story going round about a week back was that the report in the papers to the effect that the Italian commander in Albania had shot himself was due to a misprint.
During the bad period of the bombing, when everyone was semi-insane, not so much from the bombing itself as from broken sleep, interrupted telephone calls, the difficulty of communications, etc., etc., I found that scraps of nonsense poetry were constantly coming into my mind. They never got beyond a line or two and the tendency stopped when the bombing slacked off, but examples were: -
An old Rumanian peasant
Who lived at Mornington Crescent
And the key doesn’t fit and the bell doesn’t ring,
But we all stand up for God save the King 
When the Borough Surveyor has gone to roost
On his rod, his pole or his perch.
 See the reference in ‘My Country Right or Left’ to people being mildly shocked by ridiculing royalty, 694. Peter Davison