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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.
Copyright ©
Michael Coy
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