Many wrinklies, just like us Travel daily on the bus We stand with patience at the stop With stick extended as a prop And gaze myopically afar “Is that a bus, or just a car?” Wrong again! It is a van Driven by – ‘A white van man’ “Here comes a bus, this one’s on time” “Oh no! A ‘Not in Service’ sign” We stand and stand, wait and wait The next one must be running late “Here it comes!” the queuers cry As double-decker whizzes by Packed with people seated, standing Even crowded on the landing But, by it went, with just a blur No places for the oldies there “What a way to treat the old folk” Said a grey but upright bloke “This standings murder for my feet” “I want a bus with an empty seat” There’s one behind, a one- o- three “Should be room for you and me” “Get out your pass and wave it well” “So the kind driver man can tell” “That you’re entitled to a ride” “If there’s room on the inside” The driver shakes his head, dark, curly “Nine twenty nine! No chance, you’re t’wirly”
Ed’s comment – Thank you Les for the society’s first
piece of poetic licence. Are there any more budding
Byrons out there? If so send your poems to me for
inclusion in a later issue.
© Les While/ QLHS 2003
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