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The Bombay Express
The train, the train, I hate the train
We fidget in groups, as the morning sun greets
Ready to claw and fight for the few empty seats
the scores who miss out left to squash in the aisles
while the lucky ones strap hang and sway for miles.
The noise, the noise, I hate the noise
The young folk board, new mobiles on show
Testing 21 ring tones --- only three to go!
Others stare vacantly with iPods blaring
while unsettled readers start cursing and swearing.
The people, the people, I hate the people.
They grumble, they pong, they’re bald and hairy
There’s dandruff littered backs and men dressed like fairies
The prim, the proper, the perfumed tarts
And unwashed men with stale beer farts
The train, the train, I hate the train
With one seat free, you doze ‘cos you’re zonked
Until a space-stealing fat arse down beside you plonks
Bored public servants packed in like sardines
With jolt-awake snores disturbing their dreams.
The youth, the youth, they’re so uncouth
Punkers and emos and goths all in black
With cadaver cosmetics, they posture in packs
Just like the Myers staff who skulk ’round the store
They adopt a blank look and choose to ignore
The people, the people, I’m one of those people
What gives me the right to have a whinge.
To draw attention to the cultural cringe
well, mainly because when the fat lady sings
I have been guilty of most of these things.
© eoin macdhugail 07
The train, the train, I hate the train
We fidget in groups, as the morning sun greets
Ready to claw and fight for the few empty seats
the scores who miss out left to squash in the aisles
while the lucky ones strap hang and sway for miles.
The noise, the noise, I hate the noise
The young folk board, new mobiles on show
Testing 21 ring tones --- only three to go!
Others stare vacantly with iPods blaring
while unsettled readers start cursing and swearing.
The people, the people, I hate the people.
They grumble, they pong, they’re bald and hairy
There’s dandruff littered backs and men dressed like fairies
The prim, the proper, the perfumed tarts
And unwashed men with stale beer farts
The train, the train, I hate the train
With one seat free, you doze ‘cos you’re zonked
Until a space-stealing fat arse down beside you plonks
Bored public servants packed in like sardines
With jolt-awake snores disturbing their dreams.
The youth, the youth, they’re so uncouth
Punkers and emos and goths all in black
With cadaver cosmetics, they posture in packs
Just like the Myers staff who skulk ’round the store
They adopt a blank look and choose to ignore
The people, the people, I’m one of those people
What gives me the right to have a whinge.
To draw attention to the cultural cringe
well, mainly because when the fat lady sings
I have been guilty of most of these things.
© eoin macdhugail 07
