Mr. Bus Driver.
Every morning, he’s up at five Goes out for a lonely drive But who said loneliness was cool When you have to take thirty kids to school?
He turns the key, the giant grunts And gurgles, snorts and spurts As through the early morning dark, The pattering rain and dirt, The giant whispers silent creeps Waking children from their sleeps.
The giant stops every now and then To pick up student one to ten Then goes on down the bumpy road Croaking like a giant toad Searching for eleven and twelve Grunting by its lonely self.
As sleepy children board the bus, They fall asleep again. But energetic rascals scream And talk and shout and yell That all the way from home to school, You’re riding right through hell.
But as these noisy children play And talk about their ‘to-be’ day None can see the old man steer The giant bus he holds so dear.
No one sees him yawn a little. No one hears his sigh, so brittle. No one counts his grey-white hair. No one thinks he’s really there. No one stops to thank the man. No one tries to understand.
And as the children leave the bus cluttered, No one stops to even mutter No one notices he’s there. No one stops; no one cares.
But the man is strong; he takes it well. Was that a yawn? You couldn’t tell.
