The Burlington Commuter Blues
The wrong kind of driver; we're going so slow
No hint do we get of the cause of our plight
For though we be drawn by a lame eremite
Our journey, it seems, does not matter to those
Who came into this life with no webs on their toes
The wrong kind of pen, the wrong kind of ink
The wrong kind of writers; we're trying to think
No glint to be seen of the end of our block
No Muses that hover, no fluttering flock
Our poem, it seems, will not burden the page
With notions poetic or witty or sage
| Contributors: | TG, Roland, P. |
| Poem finished: | 29th August 2003. |