Mystery tour.

Mystery tour.

Was there dread

Already formed among the dead

Before an end was reached.

The roads would be cluttered,

Many a curse would be uttered

Along the way.

The air is thick

With farts and sick

Are we there yet?

Where yet?

I hear you ask

As the tea grows cold

In the thermos flask.

Too much is made of preparation

When it is about the journey

Not the destination

And too many fail to arrive

With hope alive

Their dreams intact

Enough to survive

How to live and how to act

As the rain falls

The sea breaches sea walls

The charabanc stalls

Any pleasure that was there

Dissipates in bad breath

And foul air.

How I wish we were

Sitting there together

To brighten sorry weather

Make each day a pleasure

Along the way.

Why did I climb aboard?

When, if truth be told

I would rather stay at home

I’m not ready yet

I am not too old

To steal away

Rather than do what is expected

Although I respect it.

I like the idea of rebellion

I was a hellion as a child

And as an adult

I am resolute in my desire

To be who I choose to be.

Mystery tours

Are an absurdity

For the nearly departed

I would rather miss the bus

The both of us

And take a train.

The Orient Express

A sleeper to Calais

A trip across the sea

Will be just the ticket

Not a trip to Canvey

Or Southend.

Let life be an adventure.

Not a bookend

To a trip down memory lane.

Sod the pain

Of growing old

Be bold.

It is all we have left.

So I’m told.