Boganville Trolley

Way out here,

When you walk down the street,

You know exactly where you are.

Step from the bus shelter on to the scribbled monstrosity.

‘One dollar eighty a ticket’

The old, tired and obscenely fat man behind the glass stammers

Peering at you from behind the glass,

Faking that smile forward as a welcome gift.

Making your way through the loud and jutting carriage,

The stench of sick and poor overwhelming,

Old ladies up the front, schoolchildren up back,

All manner of people through the middle.

If you ever needed a clear-cut look at society,

Look from within to its failing archaic transport, And

Look at the failings of its archaic inhabitants,

No one looks up to see you, too scared to catch a reflection of themselves.

You step off the bus back onto the sidewalk,

The clearer air invites you, but not too clear,

The bleak smog hangs overhead,

Years of steam and fossil fuel abuse filling your lungs.

At least it doesn’t smell like the bus,

Looking around – nothing much to see,

The suburban boundaries marked,

By abandoned trolleys and different scribbles on the pavement.

Povvos and Yobbos and Bogans alike,

All aboard the Boganville Trolley,

Down to Boganville shopping mall,

Abusive, screaming mothers, deviant teenagers and bigoted pensioners.

Have I forgotten that we live in the Lucky Country?

Lucky for some, if that. The 1% sure has it pretty good,

The bastards in the Capital line their pockets while we,

Slave ourselves away.

Welfare state, Nanny state,

The state doesn’t care,

Just don’t complain –

That’s prison shortly after.

At the end of the day –

You’re another day older,

At least that’s they say,

What will they say when the coin in your pocket can’t afford you any more bread.