Don't you just hate that rush hour ride to work?
The eight o’clock to London town
Will take you there but get you down.
When snow or ice lie on the track
It creeps you there and crawls you back!
This sardine can they call a train
Can give you more than mental strain.
Before you board you may be well
But bugs are breeding in this hell.
With textured air like grated cheese
Germs surf the breeze of each wet sneeze.
Are some people at death’s door? Or…
Hung over, from the night before?
Some hide their heads, to read bad news
Whilst others study scuffed old shoes.
Should someone dare to catch your eye.
They look away. Why? Are they shy?
And when you finally disband
It’s chaos like Custer’s last stand.
It’s one for one this free-for-all,
This need to heed your bosses call.
You can’t be late. They’ll dock your pay
So, platform chess, you play each day.
Take one step up, two to the side.
It’s crush hour folks! Enjoy the ride?