Umbrella Army

Is there anything more fearsome than a Londoner with an umbrella?

In a September shower, hustling in rush hour

hypnotically spinning like an airplane propeller,

seeking decapitation, making me cower

like a peasant in the face of a charging knight

a waterproof lance heading straight for the face –

the pointy bits of a brolly are always just the right height.

So I duck and dodge at a frantic pace

like a cockney ninja hidden under my hood.

Then out of nowhere comes the leader of their gang,

A Mary Poppins type looking wholesome and good,

I think I’ll evade her – at the last second, bang!

I’m gouged in the cheek with a stainless steel spike,

blood flows freely and she doesn’t even slow.

Then I’m soaked with a puddle by a speeding superbike,

Steam rises from me as my ire starts to grow.

I stomp off in a strop with my hand to my cheek,

duck my head into a shop where it’s warm and dry,

check the weather forecast for the rest of the week

and buy a brolly of my own to poke in someone else’s eye.

Underground

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.