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.
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