Of bus stations I have known, this is by far the worst
A post Victorian folly that's a post Victorian curse.
A waiting room that's cold and dark a room ground down with grime
A fire bricked up no form of heat a floor all wet with slime.
A tiny little bus station behind the old town hall,
Six tiny little bus stands beside a red brick wall.
Built for smaller busses to host sightseeing tours,
For transport to the seaside or the rugged northern moors.
Congestion in the timetable brings many busses in,
To squeeze into the bus station like sardines in a tin.
December winds are blowing hard bring snow in from the north
The crowds just praying for their bus so they can sally forth.
The "Counties" bus at bus stand six is driver-less once more,
It's passengers stand huddled up outside the tight shut door.
The wind still blows the snow gets deep and piles up in the gutter,
The bus can't move the drivers lost the crowd are in a flutter.
At long long last a "rep" appears his clip board boldly waving,
All services canceled for the day it's time to hit the paving.
All services canceled can't get to work I'm wasting my time remaining,
For an act of God is an act of God and there's really no point in complaining.