Huddled in the shelter
Waiting for the bus
It holds around eight people
But there's twenty three of us
No smiles or nods of welcome
We all stare at the ground
Dreary like the weather
Only pitter, patter sounds
The grey, descending clouds
Press down upon our heads
Infiltrates through ears
Turns brains to lumps of lead
The close and clammy blanket
Grips fingers round our throats
Even though its raining
It's too hot to wear a coat
The soggy queue embarks
Leaving slippery trails of drips
In the warmth, and for once happy
To be on their work bound trips
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