I wrote and recorded this two years ago for a Poetry Night on Twitter. I am only telling you this so that the summary content on the blog homepage doesn't contain the poem itself, all stretched out on one line, like a sad, dead snake. If you make it through the whole poem you'll be rewarded with a cringeworthy listening experience at the bottom.
From the Desk of Jack Clixby
I reached the station rather late
and spied the nineteen fourty-eight,
then found my ticket didn't work
and called the ticket man a twerp.
He said he wouldn't let me in.
I kicked him, swiftly, in the shin,
and stole his pass and hurried through –
and then I met the driver, too.
I pushed him up against a wall
and punched him in the family jewels
and as he clutched his down-below,
I jumped aboard and hammered Go.
You know, they pay him £50K
to sit there pressing Go all day.
It's not the only button, no –
there's another one marked Really Slow.
(I won't be touching that.)
Although my journey's back on track,
this new conductor's rather slack:
He's lying down in carriage five!
I think he might be... not alive...
As, when we met, in carriage four –
the one with blood stains on the floor
and walls and baggage racks and chairs –
he thought he'd caught me 'dodging fares'...
They've raised the passenger alarm,
so – turning on my driver charm –
I crackle through the radio:
ALL PASSENGERS FOR FINGRINGHOE,
WHITE NOTLEY, STRATFORD, INGATESTONE
OR ANYWHERE THAT ISN'T MY HOME
THIS TRAIN AIN'T STOPPING THERE TONIGHT.
IF YOU ALIGHT, THEN TIME IT RIGHT;
AS WE WHIZZ THROUGH YOUR STATION
I'LL BE OPENING THE DOORS
AND FINALLY, I MUST CONFESS,
THE FOLKS AT NATIONAL EXPRESS
JUST COULDN'T GIVE TWO SHITS
ABOUT THE INCONVENIENCE CAUSED.