God, I hate this bloody bus
Caterpillering me down the bleedin’ aisle
Like a bucking bronco.
Miserable being out so late.
Windows all misted up
People shouting on their walkie talkies
Like they think we want to hear
What they had for their dinners,
What they saw at the pictures.
I don’t belong here no more.
Know what them foreigners feel like
With their different skin.
Theirs is black, mines all wrinkled.
Same difference, I’m not bothered.
We all end up the same.
Like my dear Wilf
Stuck in that bone factory.
A home, they call it.
Two buses to get there.
Freedom pass no good for him
Now, poor sod.