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.