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Rather than eyeball a tabloid in the opposite seat
Or some bird in a Newcastle scarf
I’m reading dull boring poetry, set in typography neat
Inside an underground London tube car.
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The Hammers who play at the Boleyn
The Cottage where Fulham turn out
Or their West London neighbours
Dressed in blue that I favour
But that’s not what this poems about.
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I don’t need Ted Hughes, en route to see blues
Or that other bloke, what’s his name Motion?
Giving me their far out in space, cryptic views
Of boats that don’t float on my ocean.
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If they must have these “Poem’s On The Underground”
Pray, make them of interest, for people to read
I’m sure, then, the response from just the football club crowd
Alone, will ensure, that they’re avidly recited each week!