D October 22, 2017
The driver of the bus lives far away
His home is mobile,but not smart like our phones
He lives in a small caravan, he says
Yet of all the drivers he’s the one.
He always waits till I ,crippled, sit down
Advised me to sit until he stops
He has a smile and rarely makes a frown
Though sometimes in his words some anger’s wrapped.
Alas, he unsurprisingly believes
That all the money goes to foreign folk
By the tabloid press he is deceived
Yet due to pain, his hidden fires must smoke
The least men are the kindest to the weak
Believe me,I know well what I here speak
How my heart sings 