Penguins of the Damned
A garbled message - Bingley-Bong!
Sings bright – we are dismayed..
Amidst that cheerywarbled noise
One word is heard - “delayed”.
Upon this platform wet with rain
Beneath this sullen sky,.
A dozen minds begin to glaze,
A dozen watches rise
And every eye of these lost souls,
Drifts downwards in despair
Enduring slicing cold we stand
We huddled Penguins of the Damned
With rain within our hair.
We stand for an eternity,
Where damp and cold does seep
Into the very bones inside
And then our hearts do leap!
Into this platform of the damned,
Whereon we watch and wait,
The train does limp at last and we
Can end our endless wait.
Through waiting doors we shuffle fast,
Aboard this train too small.
A seat! A seat! I spy I seat!
One casual rush for all!
But there she sits – an evil one!
Three seats has she I am denied!
With shopping on the seat across
And handbag to the side.
She flicks me a disdainful look,
As if to say to me
“Why looks you there at bag and seat
I care not if you stand all week,
My bag was first, you see”
No gentle penguin maid sits here,
Claim laid to seats threefold.
A demon from the pit is she,
Yet anger makes me bold
Hold fast stout hearted penguin brave…
Ignore her - sit ye down.
She grabs the bag before my bum
Hits home. Hooray – I’ve won!
And with a lurch the train moves on
And a gaggle standing stumble.
One drops a Safeway’s bag which splits
And on the floor does tumble.
The driver in his hidden cab
Does do his job with pride.
To shudder start and fitful stop
And shoogle those inside.
We stop once more – the doors slide wide
More frozen penguins pounce.
The gaggle at the very door
Refuse to move or budge once more
Confusion reigns at once.
In disarray the penguins spill
Through that cursed gate
To flutter flap, confused they mill
No sense enough to wait.
One minute from our journeys end
The engine slows to halt.
“Bingley. Bingley, Bingley Bong!
“We’re sorry, there’s a fault”
We even see the platform there
And an end to Purgatory.
Yet here we’ll sit ten minutes yet
While someone sips their tea.
The air inside the crowded car
Is hot and still and stale.
(The fetid halls of hell’s ninth plane
Are owned by British Rail.)
Such torment this to be so close
Yet motionless we lay.
Sure only hell’s infernal rule
Could orchestrate to be so cruel,
To keep us held away.
Reluctantly the wheels do creak,
And slowly do we creep.
We slow to stop by inch by inch –
And then the doors do beep!
The seated Penguins spring to rise,
And shuffle for position.
The penguins standing jump straight through
Upon their tangled mission.
One hundred jostling, waddling forms
With one thing on their minds.
One hundred jostling, waddling forms,
Yet silent as a mime.
We sway and bump and nudge and curse
Yet still no sound we make.
With gazes on the exit gate,
Escape, Escape, Escape!
But hold! The Terror starts anew,
Hell’s worst was saved ‘till last.
We see with dread the barrier check
Now paced within our path…
(Copyright Gordon MacIntyre, December 2001)