The 8:30 to Paddington The Brexit Express (Full & Standing) I stood cramped and uncomfortable Next to a suit and tie chap, Sat, smugly in his seat. Who got on the stop before, Beating the herd that rushed, To cram into any available space. Crushed and pouring down the aisles, Swelling the carriages. A grumpy many headed centipede. I felt briefcases digging at my calves And elbows lodged in my back, As I wedged myself against the jerk Of the train lurching over points. And looked at the faces around, Every one peering at phones. Glum, downcast, zoned out. Heading for zone 1 and 2 with Dead eyes, red eyes, But not a sound. Except one, shouting into his phone Drawing dagger glares from all And sundry. The chap next to me tutted And peered from behind his Daily Mail, That screamed and railed against The migrant hordes. Though from what I could see, None had boarded this service. Destination mediocrity, In the city of crushed dreams And anonymity. Where freedom existed In the shape of an empty seat beside you, On that infernal journey home, Desperate for the exit. 'Full and standing!' the Mail declared, Desperate for Brexit. Don't let them in! Don't let them take our seats! And how many of the Fools left standing that morning Would agree? Commuter Britain.
