(20 minute poetry)

Just a minor *** up as the Central line's stuck up its own nose,
only heathens in heaven know why
I travel this cattle truck way and the guy with the thorn crown really ought to come back down and sort out this absolute shambles.

The apple pie crumbles
I stumble in my rambles and bounce back smelling of sheep dip.

But to rip off the mask and ask, what is the problem is more than what I'd care to do and so I don't.

I stand shoulder to shoulder and get that older much older thinking the whole thing through.

I should fly
give me wings
the old ostrich sings,
but he'll die
with his head in the sand.

Loving Liverpool street, tramps, smelly feet and the lady beside me has had her hair permed, a special occasion? or just one more blank looker in one more dead station?

I'll soon get there wherever there is and where ever there is I'll be there,
it's not like I care though because the day doesn't know me as yet.

This has been no public transport comfort for the sick and disgruntled and a pig or a poke in the eye for the guy with the thorn crown who never came back down today.