The Last Bus Home

The last bus home is always full of drunks Wanting to pour their soul all over the seat The moon doesn’t care The moon’s seen it all No shocking the moon Occasionally it sends down rain On the queue for the last bus home Just for the hell of it A bit of moon fun The last bus home clanks on Like cooking pans falling After mother’s had one too many It passes the parked cars Sulking in the street The ones you have to jump start To begin with It passes the dog-walker Letting his pooches off the leash To foul the kiddies playpark (No flies on him) It passes the door Where every Saturday night Regular as clockwork Tick tock bash bop Mr Arkwright thrashes his wife To keep her on her toes It passes the harbour street Where junkie girls with unpronounceable names Turn tricks and think of home It drives through pools of sick And wastes of take away wrappers This is why the last bus home Is always sad It always hopes for a modicum of loveliness Like the boy in the skyscraper who dreams of owning a horse