STATIONS UNDERGROUND

I had a strange dream that I travelled around, In a charming old train that went deep underground.

I got on at Hampstead, a good place to start, The heath is delightful, the houses are smart.

The train got to Euston, then, sudden and shrill, It gave an odd whistle and rushed to Mill Hill.

From there sped to Archway, then gathered no moss, The next thing I knew we had got to King’s Cross.

Then Barbican, Moorgate and Chancery Lane, With Westminster next for this contrary train.

I thought I’d alight, see the MPs at sport, But the train rushed away and was soon at Earl’s Court.

‘I’m starting to get a bit cross,’ I then said. The train seemed to laugh as it rushed on ahead.

It whistled and chortled and, just for a lark, Went to Bromley-by-Bow on the way to Green Park.

Then to Whitechapel, Barkingside, Colliers Wood, It did not behave as a proper train should.

‘I want to get out now,’ I cried, ‘you’re a pest.’ The train just went on and it reached Hounslow West.

Then it seemed to remember it mustn’t be late, We rushed past South Kensington, Notting Hill Gate.

Then Holborn and Angel and Holloway Road, It raced as if ready to lighten its load.

Wood Green and Bounds Green and then Arnos Grove, Then slowed down. Had it ceased wanting to rove?

It stopped at Cockfosters, a voice said: ‘That’s fine, ‘Here we are, madam, the end of the line.

‘Your journey is finished, I hope it was fun, ‘Although you are far now from where you begun.’

I got off, bemused, and a mist came around And the train disappeared to go back underground. Jill Rundle, Oundle, Peterborough.