On the replacement bus

Created a bit of a fuss

Told him the shuffling mass

Being guided

Onto the number eight

Were on a journey

Of 'Take That' Northern Cleansing

To meet their fate

 

The laugh he threw back

Hit my face

And we soon turned Into a disgrace

Whispering loudly

Over the seats

You told me

About Grinder

And I, you,

Of black pudding meats

Conversation deteriorated

Into an aching, snotty,

Teary mess

Uncontrolled laughter

Reverberated

At its very best

 

But oh my!

Who needs to turn off

The lights to undress

When you can share

Your tears and fears

Whispering loudly

Through the seats

Whilst awaiting your fate

On the number eight