The ever spinning world does not revolve around bus stops
Busses stop and start once again
Like slightly slower unimpressive trains
We catch them (not literally) and go places
Then we look for seats far from strangers with faces
Arriving at destinations ever so bland
We depart from our seat thinking ourselves ever so grand
For once we leave the bus stop behind
We go on feeling special, we are ever so blind
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment