ɪts ɐ plˈɛzənt dʒˌʌkstɐpəzˈɪʃən, bˌʌt æz ðə sˈɔŋz sˈʌbdʒɛkt mˈæɾɚ bɪkˌʌmz klˈɪɹ ðɪ ɪnsˈænᵻɾi ʌv nˈuːklɪɹ blˈækmeɪl, wˈɛɹ, æz bˈoʊnoʊ vˈɑːks pˈʊts ɪt, ðə pˈʌpɪts pˈʊl ðə stɹˈɪŋz—juː ɹˈiːəlaɪz ðæt ðɪs dʒˈɑːli nˈɔɪzɪmˌeɪkɚɹ ɪz nˈoʊmˌoːɹ ɐn ˈɪnəsənt plˈeɪθɪŋ ðɐn ɪz ðə wˈʌn ɪn ɡˈʌntɚ ɡɹˈæs ðə tˈɪn dɹˈʌm.
It's a pleasant juxtaposition, but as the song's subject matter becomes clear – the insanity of nuclear blackmail, where, as Bono Vox puts it, 'the puppets pull the strings'—you realize that this jolly noisemaker is no more an innocent plaything than is the one in Gunter Grass' The Tin Drum.