On Being Late

On Being Late There’s this girl who walks the High Street, She’s dead but does not know. She never gets to work, Was hit by a bus, London, red, number 2 2 0. She hurries down the pavement, Goes through her same routine. She was late you see. She then replays the scene. A shout, a scream, And prone upon the road she lies. Threw caution to the wind. The driver, with his head down cries. She darted out. To be late forever.