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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