A Poor Old Bus

A Poor Old Bus

I was going on a bus, 

And everything was a fuss,

I thought of going back, 

But it seemed far aback.

The windows were shattering,

 The rain was chattering,

As the bus was old,

But I still got a bit bold.

The seats were crumbling,

And I was mumbling,

As to God I trust,

And should reach home must.

As I looked at the trees outside,

 It gave me the creeps inside,

As it was a night,

But I still gave a fight.

I thought of ghosts,

Then looked at my driver host,

He gave me more creeps,

But I thought of reaching home in peace.

The bus was slow,

And I thought of getting old,

The bus suddenly became fast,

Like a rocket launched with a blast.

With a speed like that, 

I thought my head would crack,

I reached home in grief,

But still it was a relief.

Could never forget the poor old bus,

That created such a fuss,

Still it is a journey to be remembered,

I bet! I bet!