Here comes another one..........

Anne and Sarah reminded me sometime ago of an ongoing problem that many of us experience day after day. The Bus. What's all the fuss about the bus you may well ask? This poem spells it out. The short sharp stanza's convey the crippling and debilitating effects these machines have on us, and raise the question of why it's called a bus-stop and not a bus-go.

"Don't know about you, but I'm depressed when I wait
Twiddling my thumbs because the bus is late
Would get home more quickly wearing roller skates.

I sit at the stop in rain and sunlight
The empty road tells me things are not looking so bright
Looking and looking my bus is nowhere in sight

There is a timetable, but oh to what purpose?
My bus is no sleek and ultra fast porpoise
But rather a lumbering and very slow tortoise

Some buses they pass, but mine's not here
I'm starting to grow a beard I fear
Time marches on, seems I'm not going anywhere

To help pass the time, I try not to frown
But rather to sing, let the words resound
The wheels on the bus go round and round.....

Will I get home? My hopes realised?
Will I get moving? I may be surprised
Or stuck at the stop become fossilised?

I'm sure you have noticed a distinct lack of flow
Like the proverbial snail, my bus is on a go-slow
And Rich, at the stop at an all time low.

With growing finality, I'm resigned to my doom
"Where is the bus?" just deepens my gloom
Never mind drowning in a sea of exhaust and fumes.

And when finally in the distance there comes my ride
I reach for the joy that is deep inside
Home to my slippers, a toot and my pipe."