I caught this morning morning's motorer, Cit- y of London's loiterer, lingering-long-late vehicle; I went riding on the lower level (underneath the smoky air), and tidying my hair (how it falls onto my face from its apposite, ordered, parted place!) then off, off now, we quit the bus-stop. Back bench and a-bouncing, the hurl and gliding produced a big wind. My stomach, chiding, stirred; I had erred! The haddock and the sausage! I was a twit! Fried fish and saveloy act, oh, air, full phlegm, now throw up! AND the fire that breaks from me then, a hundred times more searing, more acid, and so I'll go, I vow! No chance of it; slów plód makes tracks, and I dread trouble. The blue-black costume comes so slow- ly down, hounding me, and would that I were dead!
© 1979, 2009. With apologies to GMH and TfL. Tim Rowe is a writer, poet, worship leader and software engineer who lives with his family in KentLast modified on