THE BUG BUS POEM!

The angled Son of The Perpendicular.

I am a crooked line

and I’ve walked a crooked mile,

sang every crooked song,

wishing for sixpence-

though none the richer,

I was Home

with the Devil at the stile.

Kittens never cats, barrel bound

each hungry mouth,except

the one that caught the mouse,

I let it go, we all let everything go

from that crooked little house.

Spuds laughing on the plate,

sods of humid turf wasting sweet in the grate,

and the hurried lorries of change

like thunder of our fate

on the one way tarmac road,

Before Tony hung himself,

Before I was afraid,

Before the heavy rains,

Before the internal storms that rage

would always scream,

in forgiveness, and for mercy

in every crooked line.