Sunday, 3 February 2019

1977. Bus number 8

 As the nineteen sixties smoked itself into oblivion, and the last petal fell off the flower power daze, new times of exciting self expression was evolving. Being a teenager in the 1970's were certainly fun times, especially with the changes in fashion, and musical genres. The following poem was inspired by my memories of those final bus rides home from school.

Number 8 Bus

Man with a stick climbed on board
the bloke in a cap committed fraud
girl with Mohican spikey red hair
smug flat cap he dodged the fare;

the dole delinquent single mum
mohican red hair chews on gum
the dirty old stick admired her tits
noisy school kids the little gits:

on number eights smoky top deck
teenagers smoke and swear like feck
a lamenting moan of a grubby drunk
back seats reserved for safety pin punks;

the drivers driving smoking his fags
the punks are punking anarchic gags
a spot ridden face full of hate
home from school, on bus number 8.

© Julian Clarke 2019

Linked to Poets United Sunday Pantry.