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The National Express 440 came flying by as I was getting home from the pub.
Hell is a National Express coach.
An overgrown northward-crawling cockroach
Full of fellow travellers on the midsummer roam
Replete with luggage and tickets home
And they stink of fags, and dogs, and baths
And the bloke at the front annoyingly laughs, hyena-like,
At anything anyone might say.
Me? My ticket's gladly one way.
The girl in the next seat would normally be
A source of mystery and intrigue for me.
Where has she been? Where is she going?
But without asking, there's no way of knowing.
And she's eating her fourteenth packet of crisps,
And the students at the back are pissed and being sick
And shouting and swearing and belching and...
Happy.
And there's a mother changing a baby's nappy.
She throws me a glance, then looks away.
I haven't got a thing to say.
Ain't it strange how folk can sit so close together
And not say a word to each other, ever?
I mean, I'll probably never see her again,
And if I do it'll be on a train,
And we still won't talk, or even smile,
We'll just sit there, mile upon mile.
Nothing to drink, nothing to eat,
I'm cramped and twisted in my seat,
I wear my Walkman like a cocoon,
And pray to God that we get there soon,
And that I don't have to go before we do
'Cos I'm fucked if I'm using a chemical loo.
I think, as the destination we approach,
Hell is a National Express coach.
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