Dounreay dismantled, piece by piece,
reactors hushed, the glow at peace.
Steel and concrete, stripped with care,
a future planned in thinning air.

And in the town, the same routine:
doors shut quiet, streets go lean.
Not radiation, but resignation,
a slow embrace of ruination.

They decommission shops like rods,
pubs like turbines, hopes like gods.
Every closure signed and stamped,
as if decline were neatly mapped.

So here’s the chorus, sharp and plain:
“Why build it up, to tear it down again?”
Dounreay’s gone by design, you see;
but the town’s decay feels voluntary.