John F Keane’s Romance of the Number Stations by GM Jon

(Over a background of radio fuzz) A squeaking wheel demarks its ShortWave channel, trills urgent pips though fuzzing tides of noise and out across the trampoline ionosphere Twenty-four hour, seven-day woodpeckers drum from far transmitters in a music box as changeling children chant their cold quintets Spies hunch in silence, waiting for their call Recording how the coded numbers fall Ready? Five-six-two-eight-four Six-six-one-four-four Five-five-eight-six-one 
  Ready? Two-five-seven One-four-three Encrypted digits bouncing round the globe; Unbreakable transmissions falling from the cherry-ripe, red lips of the Spanish Lady raining strange commands on fading bedsits, mined from random numbers with a burning key: the urgent actions of a new tomorrow Spies hunch in silence, waiting for their call Recording how the coded numbers fall Spies hunch in silence, waiting for their call Recording how the coded numbers fall