Sat on another train,
Going to a go between station,
A place I've no meaning to visit,
Yet my hand is forced.
My ticket dictates the destination,
I pay the fare once,
To sit upon two trains,
And wait between a
Fifth or sixth of an hour.
This dead time, I detest,
I must pay the luxury of it.

Sat inside the metal box,
I pass through the wind tunnel,
Sometimes it is painted,
With leaves and berries,
Other times with red bricks.
Either way, the noise: inescapable.
The engines growl without clarity,
A murmured noise only the tracks,
With heir incomprehensible gabble,
Can claim to understand.
The two communicate loudly,
Exchanging indifferent noises.
One can only assume
That they are battling vocally.

There is nothing melodic about trains,
Their speed far too varied,
By the time the metronome
Is able to match its tempo,
The engine slurs to legato.
Should one ride by an open window,
You'll hear the violins of the rail orchestra,
Screaming in protest.
Much like an athletes muscles,
Right after vigorous training.
Unpleasant to say the least.

To try and sit still - impossible,
One is thrown like a rag doll.
To and fro, as though a puppet.
I often wonder if that's why,
Does this franchise see us as puppets?
Is that why ticket prices yo-yo?
To pull our wallet strings,
And make us dig into our pockets?
Timetables are manipulated,
To prevent us demanding refunds,
Which their policies deny anyway.
They cram us in like sardines,
Airtight seals, it preserves our freshness.

If one reserves a seat today,
They have paid for the luxury,
That exclusive chance,
To engage in an altercation.
The man in your seat,
He also paid his fare,
He too deserves a seat.
The journey of hours and more,
Dictates he should be seated
For at least six sevenths of it.
But you paid for that argument,
Fooled into believing your set is guaranteed.