Smelly Folk

The Bus, the bus, the bus.

Oh, bus.

 

Filled with a nuance of characters,

Wierdos, potential lunatics and

Madmen, your black, twenty-ton

Tires churn ever stronger everyday.

 

Like clockwork, yet an hour and a half

Behind.

 

Your cold, steel, exterior, however, cannot

Hide the rustic, beating secrets you keep inside.

Regardless of your metal prowess, those deep

In the trenches of your chest are faulty, weak and often times

Really ripe and smelly.

 

Like a cesspool of discarded apple cores

Wrapped in the diapers of a thousand obese

Infants,

The overbearing stench of your wonder

Draws my content from the

42 muscles it takes to frown.

 

But...how else will I get home?

Author's Note

Monday through Friday, it's the bus for me, folks.
(Sarcasm) Woo....

Reviews

[Peter Joseph Swanson]

Love it!