25 February 2012

Lines In Haste, Somewhere In East Anglia

This train will shortly be arriving in…
If this is Thursday, this has got to be…
I’ve no i-fucking-dea – don’t ask me:
I don’t know what I am, or where I’ve been.
I wonder what bizarre or venal sin
That I committed in some drunken spree,
Could warrant this? What penance sets me free?
This carbon-copy carriage-cage I’m in,
The windows mirroring the scene within,
Is branded with the legend: this is b –
the quiet coach, so I can’t scream my plea:
O Fates preserve me from the train to Lynn!
If you could save me, quick, ‘fore we arrive,
I swear that someday soon I’ll learn to drive…


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