Wet Wednesday

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I've never actually worked full-time in London, but I have to visit the metropolis frequently enough to know it really isn't be for me. The depression etched into the faces of those I see commuting tells the story eloquently, and shows a clear contrast with those living and working in the country.

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Wednesday morning, wet and cold,

I’m off to work, do what I’m told.

So train to Euston, Northern line,

The sardine squeeze, for once on time.

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And then the quandary, bus or foot?

Slow but dry, or quick but wet?

I run the last mile, collar high,

Feet wet, legs wet to the thigh.

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Then up the lift, to fourteenth floor,

My desk, my chair, six feet of floor.

A boring day, with boring folk,

A boring lunch, with feet still soaked.

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Job satisfaction? Not in here,

Just sweat, and strain, and low-grade fear.

Then finally its time to go!

Rush to the door, then down below.

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Reverse the trip, its raining still,

Depressed commuters all look ill.

Two hours spent each way, each day;

For what? Just stress and piss-poor pay.

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I cannot stand this agony,

The daily grind is killing me!

I must find something else to do,

Like grind in bed, all day, with you.

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