My senses are reeling, in a bit of a state:
I’ve a feeling in Ealing we’re going to be late
For we’re dealing with traffic that seems not to end.
It’s so unappealing, we’re right round the bend!
We’ve cracked on to Acton but there’s still not much luck
That we’ll make it in time, for we’re sure to be stuck.
I’m not starting to panic; I’m simply resigned
To a later arrival than we first had in mind.
We’ve visited Chiswick, but we’re still at a crawl
Since the Fiat in front starts to stutter and stall
It’s a bit of a worry, with a hour to go
When we’re in such a hurry that we’re creeping so slow.
The traffic’s now moving so I hope it is true
That we won’t queue in Kew, since I’ve nothing to do
As my laptop’s lost charge and I’ve finished my book
And I’ve run out of sweets I brought with me to suck.
As we plod on to Cobham, the bus-driver chap
Announces amazingly he hasn’t a map;
As we wait by the station, I’m sure that our fate’s
That our planned destination’s a place we’ll reach late.
A feat of survival was that fraught final mile
But at least our arrival is greeted in style.
Though upon the horizon a cloud looms quite black
For we haven’t a clue how we’ll make our way back!
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