This is a path laid out before us
in a neat trajectory.
This is the thin blue line on which
our destiny is written.
This is the closest we come to
knowing what happens next.
This is a carriage of cold bright
light, come to carry us home.
This is redemption from toil.
This is the way the proletarian
rides.
This is a death cab.
This is a Piccadilly Line service
to,
Cockfosters.
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