In a more innocent age we learned this lullaby from mother:

The Bomb Song

In the anarchist's attic, so lowly and so mean,
All amidst the fumes of nitro-glycerine;
They're busy making fuses, and filling cans with nails,
And the little Slavic children set up this mournful wail.
Oh, it's Sister Sasha's turn to throw the bomb (bomb, bomb);
Last night it was thrown by Brother Thom (Thom, Thom).
Mamma's aim is bad and the Cossacks all know Dad,
So it's Sister Sasha's turn to throw the bomb (bomb, bomb).

Sister Sasha took the bomb and started off;
"Oh, mind you now," said Mamma, "to blow up Templehoff."
And so the anarchist family waited, till dusk turned into dawn,
The anarchist family waited and sang this mournful song:
Oh, it's Brother Petros' turn to throw the bomb (bomb, bomb);
Sister Sasha's gone the way of Brother Thom (Thom, Thom);
Mamma's aim is bad and the Cossacks all know Dad,
So it's Brother Petros' turn to throw the bomb (bomb, bomb).

Brother Petros went out, a bright faced Slavic lad;
He wore his Sunday suit, the only suit he had…

Cheerily,
Charley Noble