The low down dirty old Underground blues

Why do we at break of day
Brace ourselves to plow the fray?
Surely Britons ain’t forgot
That queueing is our national sport?

Daily, though, I feel the thrill
Of elbows meeting ribs until
Inside and out, I’m black and blue
And panting and perspiring too.

There must be a better way
For me to get to work today,
But tube is quicker, you retort
We like to keep our journeys short!

Yet overcrowding and delays
Especially on ‘weather’ days
Are making this commuter frown
Each time she travels into town.

A comedy of manners

Descending t’ward the depths of what
In London passes for transport,
Oft do I ignore the thrust
Of passengers, who, in their lust
To reach their desks and start each day
Do trample others ‘midst the fray.

Once upon a youthful day
I, purposeful, would elbow through
But lately I step out the way
To give more room to those who do.
And easing, thus, their passage by
This courtesy, I rarely spy
A shifting glance, infrequent too, of
Gratitude for what I do.

Cheer Up!

A goldfish bowl, I live within
And gaze out on the world.
At people who pass by, I grin,
Though they act quite absurd.
I know they see me, yes indeed
For oft I catch their eye,
And yet they will not smile back
What do you fear? I cry.
I wonder at these silly folk
Who spend their day a-scowl.
What use is that? I’ll share a joke,
There’s no need to be foul!
I hope each time I see you
That for you things have improved;
Look forward to our meeting
When you’re in a better mood.

On the inconsiderate spreading of disease

The cogs are turning in my belfry
Hours may strike ere I feel healthy.
Public transport equals germs
People share so we take turns.
If they’d only use a hanky
I might never feel so manky,
But that takes intelligence, and
Britons seem to have no sense.
Rather than a week in bed,
I’d much prefer a clearer head,
But thanks to those who choose to sneeze
I’ve no choice but to take my ease.
It’s not my fault I’ll be off work,
Due to some stupid, thoughtless jerk.
So I can’t help but feel incensed
By others’ vicious, pinching pence.
I’d buy you all a handkerchief
If I had funds – to save me grief!
But as I’m rather short this year
Instead, I’ll make one thing quite clear:

All those who spray me with their germs,
I’ll wish you many ill returns!