Rat Race

It's cold, it's drab, it's dark, it's wet, it's either snow or sleet,

I'm waiting for the bus to come and I can't feel my feet,

And seldom on the bus do I find a wretched seat,

And when I do, I feel it is a very welcome treat.

The Beeping of the doors and the ringing of the phones,

And the chatter of the school kids and the smaller childrens' moans,

And the snoring of the business man plugged in to his headphones,

And the rolling of the wheels as the yawning driver groans,

Sticky are the windows, and sticky is the floor, 

Sticky is the stairway, and sticking are the doors,

And eventually they open, like an OAP's old jaws,

And I'm released back to the city and its relentless craw. 

Then Sucked in to the underground, the veins of London Town,

The multicoloured arteries that pump the hoards around, 

I descend in to electric light, "This lift is going down",

And down I go to platform edge, a sea of vacant frowns.

Eye contact is forbidden, please keep well out of my space,

I wish your stinking pits were not so close to my poor face,

And why must that man listen to such excessive bass?!

Counting down the stops 'til I escape this hellish place,

We're held at a red signal, My God I start to Pray,

And this; only the start of my outrageous, hectic day! 

All because I'm slave to a horrendously small pay,

And as I stand I dream of lands that aren't so far away.

The jerking of the brakes on steel, the stench of unwashed hair,

The stomp of boots, stiletto heels, "Lift Broken"; take the stairs,

Soon we'll be set free from the TFL Inhumane Snare,

One more flight of concrete steps and out in to the air.

It's cold, 

it's drab, 

it's dark, 

it's wet,

it's either snow or sleet,

I'm walking to my office and I still can't feel my feet.