The Commuter

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He parks his car before an old girl’s drive,

and ignores her handmade copperplate sign,

‘No Cars’ it rules, in ink now long since dry;

yet every morning at twenty to nine,

he arrives, sure as the compass points north,

one of the briefcase carrying brigade,

then he hurries to his train henceforth,

praying it’s not crowded, or worse, delayed.

Swiftly flitting through the pavement traffic,

and skipping in and out of the gutter.

His good shoes are in his bag, wise tactic,

still people shout ‘Suit and trainers nutter!’

He must travel for miles to work each day.

leaving no time for fun, all work no play.

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