Every morning is a race,
to rush quickly to some place.
All the hustle and the bustle,
all I do is slowly shuffle.
Down the stairs and through the gate,
my destiny an unknown fate.
They lead along and through near-sleep,
why do we always feel like sheep?
A man in pink points over far,
which I obey and give a ‘baa!’
Then the doors they open wide,
and eager mob it bursts inside.
Ever pushing for some space,
a briefcase smooshing in my face.
Someone feels, another squeals,
who’s that standing on my heels?
Another cough, another snort,
all that fighting, but for nought.
Until the end I cannot wait,
oh how I better not be late!
At last arrive at final stop,
and so I exit with a *pop*.
Perhaps one day I’ll love its mug –
that fucking morning Shanghai hug.