Foliage and landscape mere blurry scenes
Pelting rubbles to kids, semi naked, playing chicken
Their loud hollers mere whiff of a passing drone
Cramp cabins for the moneyed none’s
While luscious lovelies service the flusher ones
For the many meanwhile knee space is plenty
Though the leather’s worn, the nooks and cranny nasty
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Oh just who is it who’s driving this train?
On weathered track unscheduled distant
At speeds between sombre and utter disdain
As worrisome passengers sing a hallow refrain
The journey’s brochure flutters, hitching an open window
Stories of days gone past, of memories rendered hollow
Stories of days gone past, of memories rendered hollow
Nobody gives a damn, it’s an old, old fare
Burgeoning difficulty; to extract, to cajole, to care
Where does this journey ends, a whispering spread
When do we stop, a worry, the mounting dread
Is the engineer sound, does he have the creed
Why does it seem that we’re picking up speed?
Why does it seem like we’re a mare, a bleeping steed?
Cantering around like a harried, puffed up breed
Its rider aloft, in drunken fit, his conscience freed
Cheered on by a crowd, of supposed bourgeois creed
Why does it seem that its dizzying speed we’re picking?
When the horizon,
distance shrinking, is fast approaching?
Just who is driving us in this unnerving journey?
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