Six forty seven from
Southampton Central
Eight twenty one into
Basingstoke town.
Commuter pact coaches
on Wessex Electric
Will speed like a
bullet past meadow and down.
Graces and manners
are locked in the brief case
Those left behind are
the weak and the lame,
No quarter is given
no toes left untrampled
The bruises will
heal, you'll be glad that you came.
Like a cattle
stampede with the ramrod behind you
Swear all that you
will but this train leaves on time,
Only one seat
remaining, the one in the washroom
The others were taken
two stops down the line.
No personal space
there is nothing between you
Each breath you take
has been swallowed before,
The man in your face
had had garlic for breakfast
His flatulent dog has
been sick on the floor.
You’re suddenly there
with a screen like a banshee
Dragged from the
train on a river of bone.
You're dirty,
bedraggled, breathless and tired
You'd forfeit a
ransom to turn and go home.
Thrust in repugnant
tubes we chase
The bogus lures of
rodent race.
All mesmerised by
golden grails
As Magog's bestial
rule prevails.
Yet deep within the
spirit springs
And raises souls to
higher things.
To curse the god that
would enjoin
Us sell ourselves for
tainted coin.
Copyright© Alan
Gilbert 2012.
