A frigid morning, in a deserted bus stop
Shiv’ring, anxiously waiting for a ride back home
I’m all bundled up but still ice-chilled to the bone
Bitter cold I could feel my cheeks and eyelids throb
The bus real late, my poor teeth begin to chatter
Gloved hands, shaking, I tried to light a cigarette
But the Zippo in my front pocket I can’t get -
If the bus ain’t here soon, I’ll be a mad hatter!
And so I watched icicles melt to while the time
Dreaming of the tropical isle where I was born
Lo! Here’s the bus; it didn’t stop, then blew its horn
The bus was full, driver all smiles! oh what a slime!
© F Aparici