Way out trains

The Northern line sign said, 'Way out trains',
So I climbed a few stairs, and I stared at the signs,
And found an escalator like a giant tongue,
Which spat me out, free from the underground beast.

And I stood on the concourse and I waited for a sign,
To tell me where to board my way-out train.
And the sign said the platform was number thirteen,
A number of foreboding, superstition and gloom.

But the train was just plain, grey and blue and chrome and sad;
Where were the psychedelic murals or the spliffs?
Where were the San Francisco flower power tunes?
Where were the men with pony tails and tie-dyed shirts?

The train headed out, way out west, away from London,
Way out to the South West, to the harbour by the sea,
But the passengers were tired, the announcements were robotic,
And no-one looked for answers that were blowing in the wind,

Because the way-out times are over, and the city is in charge,
And the only thing that matters is the job that pays the rent,
And the trains are dull and dreary, and the passengers are spent,
And the promise of the exit sign was just an idle dream.



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