‘Twas early in the seventies my story came about,

a tale about a sorry trail of woe.

The airline was at fault for it, of that there is no doubt,

although they tried to say it wasn’t so.

 

First time I’d ever flown and then they bumped me from the flight,

decided I must take a different route;

not Leeds my destination, but for Liverpool that night,

and stop off at the Isle of Man to boot.

 

Just four hours over schedule when they put me on a train,

surprisingly my ticket was first class,

and picture me, a student, beard, guitar and hippy mane

when seen by the conductor through the glass.

 

I could see the wheels a-turning, so sure he’d caught a cheat,

convinced himself I’d never paid the fare,

but when I showed him proof I was entitled to my seat,

his look told me he thought life wasn’t fair.

 

Then fully eight hours later than originally due,

at journey’s end I could unpack my case.

Though years have passed, the one thing I can always call to view;

the jaundiced look on that conductor’s face.