******* and your dear old trains,
hard seats and beat staff selling
rip-off chaff on chariots of mass
profits. The **** merchant gazes
through dead eyes and scratched
plastic as he charges up my **** with
an astronomical figure. A smile
on his bosses face as he races
into his office with more bloated
profits is all he can think of as he
sinks my high hopes into an oblivion
of rage. "*******" I tell him as he
flashes his price, 'that's twice what
I've already paid', but "mind your
language" is all he says as if that's
worse than ****** a man half your age.
He can't use his brain independently
from the movement of his masters
strings, he must watch the news
as if he's staring at his personal
kings - what a *****. All I can do now
is accept my fate of a few boring dates
with the telephone and my mates
at East Mids Trains, but that's in the
future and the **** merchant's in the
past, now I speed towards memories
I hope will far outlast that **** behind
the plastic and the ***** to whom his
thoughts are cast. Bring on
The Big Smoke.