Bloodbath on the eight twenty five

I’m re- posting posts that were originally submitted with no tags adding tags so someone might actually read them

_

Old men who drive young men’s cars

Blow-up women with cosmetic surgery scars

It’s the morning bloodbath on the eight twenty five

If this were a contact sport you’d be lucky to survive

The shock troop tactics as we all compete

In a Darwinian struggle for a window seat

No place for the weak or the politeness impaired

Look them in the eye and show them you’re not scared

Of Louis Vuitton luggage and a designer skirt

An expensive laptop or a hand made shirt

I’d like to pretend that this is a class war

That I’m just trying to even up an uneven score

The personal campaign of an old grizzled vet

But I just don’t want to stand by a smelly toilet.

 

It’s Friday evening and all warlike spirit’s long gone

As we wait on the station for the five thirty one

The walking wounded shuffle along

Without even a hint of a Vera Lynn song

As we retreat from Moscow for the weekend

For time with our loved ones and to spend

The meagre spoils of an ever lasting war

Against the flood of bills through a mortgaged door

Our only minor triumphs are when we compete

In a Darwinian struggle for a window seat

On Monday morning it’s an odds on bet

That I won’t be left standing

By a smelly

Toil

et.

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