Trudging through the frightful torrent,
The stinging rain could cut through my clothes
The stinking smog smell is abhorrent,
And the train rumbles as it goes

I'm trying to reach a resting place,
As faces are flying faster past,
A sheltered bus stop I reach at last,
And sit myself down, and thank my good graces

I'm not quite sure just where I'm heading
It's always out of reach, it seems,
Being late is what I'm dreading,
...*That's one of my recurring dreams