Bus Driver

Granted the glamour is lacking severely
The wheels go round like the rhyme
For parents whose small ones are learning it early
From rhyme to career is mine.
A cowboy, a spaceman, footballer or wrestler
A doctor, an actor, a boss
Pick one was the choice laid out on a platter
Nothing from the column marked loss.
Reality calls for payment and owing
Dreams sit deferring to such
You can’t make a living from never growing
How hard did you try?
Not much.
You can do whatever you want
Words not bandied about in my youth
Instead be real and think of the future
Stars are for others to shoot.
Your path is in safety, predictable metre
No risk or chance taking is needed
Like an infant who listens and follows the leader
The words – blindly heeded.
Result of which you see before you
As you board for your destination
The man with the cap and jacket both matching
The brand of mass resignation.
No trip to the moon, no goal scored at Wembley
No life saving feats to perform
Instead exact change and why don’t you tell me
What dreams of yours are yet born.

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