The train drew away from the lonely station.
Steam from its funnel in cloud formation
People alone in darkened coaches.
Festooned with spiders and green cock-roaches.
Wheels turning quicker and quicker,
It makes the people sicker and sicker.
The moon is high, the light is low,
And bats come flying to and fro.
A softened blow, a high pitched scream,
How can this be ? Is it a dream ?
Down the train, footsteps are heard,
Unlike a man's; more like a bird's.
Fast breathing, moaning, sighing too.
Get out dog, go on, get out, shoo !
The ceiling slowly hinges open,
No utterance, no word is spoken.
And through the hole the things now lowered,
Not clockwork, more like battery powered.
Into the corner the lady rushes
And falls on her nose, with rosy blushes.
And as she cowers in the corner,
Her face is black just like a mourner.
The thing is steaming in a vessel.
She grinds it up with a wooden pestle.
This vile thing, what can it be ?
A British Rail cup of tea !
P Bragoli.
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