Waiting for the Bus

I’m waiting for the bus. Ain’t nothing to discuss, ain’t no more dumbing-down. You’re super-pissed-off-plus? Well that makes two of us. I’m heading out of town. Ain’t no more fight or fuss (who taught me how to cuss?) Don’t want to stick around. A little bar that sells cold beer, that’s where I intend to steer, or any place but here. I need a change of atmosphere and I ain’t gonna reappear: the round-trip costs too dear. I’m sitting at the stop outside the betting shop, and all I’ve got’s a song. Yeah, do it. Call the cops. There ain’t no crime called “swaps”. Ain’t me who done you wrong. Don’t mind them open-tops, don’t matter where it drops: first bus that comes along.