A Poem For The Underground

Multicultural,
Counter cultural,
Like vultures
Moving in for the kill,
If looks could kill
They probably will,
As paranoia beckons
And bottle's of water spill.

Her eyes bleed anxiety
We all suffer silently
The heat and dust
Battle my circulation
As the tube goes faster
Stuck on a endless rotation.

Weary travellers
Sleep upright in chairs
Regular commuters
Discuss interest rates and fares

No room for doom and gloom
Only room for empty womb's
Seat's smell of puke
From a drunken students lip
No body getting a handshake
Or a £20 tip.

Where silence is deafening
And staring
Is a favourite game
This is a poem
For the underground
From which I took its name.