And when the end of days arrives
And we are queued and cattling
Oh we can praise the Lord for death
For then ends all the prattling

The soreness stiffly settles in
So sit and stew and ponder thus
If there were anything to sin
Why would we wait here for this bus?

The scale is so at odds with us
Morphing, shrinking, chasm-crack,
The only way is on the bus
The driver, bless him, takes us back

My thesis is almost complete
I stayed up late to edit it
So would you read it in your seat?
It may be crap but could it fit?

Within the mediocrity
The realm in which we write
So early in the hour of tea
Or later in the nerves of night?