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.
