The Waiting Room on Platform 3… a poem for rail travellers

Nestled twixt two platforms,

Is the door to hell,

A urine infused fox hole,

Not worth your soul to sell.


The white paint is now yellow,

It’s peeling off the walls,

But there’s nowhere else to wait,

Until the tannoy calls.


Samaritans helped the man,

On the poster watching me,

But his feeble smile’s still weaker than

My brown-grey railway tea.


If there is a God,

Then this is his waiting room,

I’ve been sat here waiting ages,

For that train which leaves at noon.


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