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On the train … again

 

I would fain

A drink obtain

But all in vain

For the Brighton train

With sneered disdain

For my delicate brain

Tells me I must refrain

From hopes to gain

Spirits to inflame

A soul which has lain

Inert, in the main,

Since breakfast in Staines

With coffee so hot that it

Scolds and it maims;

But, like the Jains,

I must not complain

(Though we British have slain

Many thousands who came)

We know it’s in vain

To attempt to complain

As we endure the pain –

Of a trolley-less train!

 

Brian Hick September 2010

©copyright 2021 S Hick