Six years bus driving
Inner city London, always thriving
Snail tourists, work folk surviving
People leaving and arriving.
As with any job, moments of stress
If only passengers and illegally parked cars were less.
No matter the issue,
Its always the bus drivers fault,
Somebody lend them a tissue,
Even they try to assault.
I’ve had people kicking, swearing, spitting and blowing there top,
Even if they are going only one stop.
I’ll let some on who don’t want to pay,
And they still fall out there pram,
When things don’t quite go there way.
A ticket handy, is it too much trouble?
Holding everyone up as you search through your rubble,
Overcrowding the bus, ”please no more,”
I may as well have my head down and speak to the floor.
There seems to be an ongoing theme,
Selfish car drivers letting off steam.
Where is everyone rushing to,
Relax, calm down, enjoy the view.
Twelve-hour soul-destroying shifts never ending,
Back aggravating and early grave sending.
Steemit Writing poems helps me unwind,
If only more time, one could find.
As I driver though I must keep calm,
Not to drive it like I’ve stolen it,
And not raise an arm.
Calving up a taxi here and there,
Punters sent flying, whiplash lying some of them crying.
I must be glad that they aren’t all this bad.
