Dear Southern, I can understand that trains aren’t quite your thing, They’re just a touch bourgeois for high-class people such as you. I guess below-the-bedrock rankings somewhat lose their sting, If you award yourself a pay rise as your dupes all sit and stew.
So pat each other on the back, go play a round of golf, While I’m pacing up and down the platform, waiting for the train. And as your CEO – wait, what’s his name again? Adolf? As he tees off, I can only hope you’re all caught in the rain.
But he’s worked so hard, I hear them cry, to make sure we only fail As much as we do now. It could be worse. They could put us all in jail! And then there would be trains no more, I’d just have to stay at home, Lounging around in pajamas till four, Not something I could condone. So give him a bonus, give him a plaque, redesign his office with Zen, Give him free tickets, give him a car, give him a fountain pen. The new year comes, and it will bring a newer, better farce. In my dreams, I’m taking SouthWest, and I’m travelling first class.