The Last Bus

The Last Bus

Remember when you used to drive a bus
On several pints of Gales HSB,
And didn't cause a scene or make a fuss
When punters would demand a ride for free.

Usually, of course, just when the pubs
Had kicked out into Gosport's busy town,
(The matelots heading back towards their subs)
Before austerity had closed it down.

The last bus from the Ferry back to Fareham
Left around eleven I recall;
Most drivers hated sailors who would scare 'em,
But you never minded doing it at all.

They pushed and shoved onto the double decker,
Ringing bells and spewing in the aisles,
There was hardly room to pick up from the Mecca,
Bingo winners trading in their smiles

For a freebie to the flats at Rowner,
Grinning, reaching out to touch your leg,
(The drunks were just beginning on a downer)
But you let them on without the need to beg.

By now the bus was full of raucous singing,
No one had a ticket, paid their fare,
The songs accompanied by a constant ringing
Of bells to halt the bus when they got there;

To their stop, that is, increasingly dishevelled,
Reeking of beer and various spirits too.
Just as well, you thought, that they had revelled,
Disguising fumes arising out of you.

That last bus from the Ferry was the craic,
You miss it now but, after all, who cares
The boss had copped and given you the sack
For generously neglecting all those fares!
Categorized as Poems

By Arthur Richardson

Very part time poem maker. Retired from paid work.

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