Confessions Of A Train Rat

Though food is good, a hefty meal –
Its thrown at you, no need to steal –
Rotten apples, stray nut,

The mushiest sliver of some fruit,
Banana, mango, or beetroot
Fairly sumptuous, but,

It warbles, screams, shakes with gall,
Inconvenient, cold – not pleasant at all –
A pestilence, a rut,

And though it really does smell good,
Like shit, like piss, like it should,
It seems like death: shut;

Unlike the cell of similar days, unlike known nights, unlike known ways, unlike the quiet, hellish life
There’s a torrid turbulence of a finicky floundering fate,
A journey long defying sense – one thing I really hate.

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