Well, I'm not late for the bus this morning,
I recognise a
few of the faces at the stop,
There's the two love birds
clinging on,
And the short balding man and the other man in
overalls.
There's the mature lady with smashing glasses,
And
the pretty young mum with her baby son.
Well, this must be the
right bus I'm on,
The loud West Indian lady's talking to her
friend,
The gentle giant man with his bright green
lunch-box,
And the uniformed young man have got on at the next
stop,
The same stop where the blond surgery assistant got
off.
Every morning I can tell I'm on the right bus,
Without
ever having to look at my watch,
Because these people are no
longer strangers,
And I know they all recognise me.
But
strangers we are and strangers we do remain,
For no-body says
'hello' to one they've never known before.
If I got on another
bus whether I was early or late,
Then truly a stranger amongst
strangers I would be.
Posted: 2007-07-01 12:59:40