Down through that yawning maw,
On moving metal machines,
Where people leave their manners at the door,
and the end seems to justify the means.
Hustle, jostle, push and shove,
It's the same on multi-coloured lines,
For fellow man there is no love,
Just a destination to get to on time.
Ladies stood, clearly with child,
A barging businessman must have the seat,
Survival of the fittest in this underground wild,
Leave the less able struggling on sore feet.
Does the lack of fresh air make us morally redundant?
No excuse me's or sorry, my apologies-
Seemingly assholes are abundant,
Is mine the rarest of ideologies?
To be as polite and friendly as I'm able,
On seeing an elder, offer to stand,
Maybe manners are fantasy or fable,
This Underground must be a different land.