Raymond Drives a 51

A recent journey on a number 51 bus inspired this poem by Tom Gray

Raymond drives a 51
Though he’d rather be a writer,
There’s little time to sit and think,
When he’s driving a late night(er)

Loading up with drunken fools,
A couple getting frisky,
Someone’s fainted on the upper deck
And downstairs wreaks of whisky.

Up Glossop Road and Western Bank,
Past hospitals and parks,
It’s a lonely life for a gentle soul,
A poet of the dark.

Once Broomhill’s gone, there’s the Hallam Towers,
He goes through all the gears,
Deep down he knows his dream is dead
And he’ll be doing this for years,

So next time you board a Sheffield bus
Whether it’s to Jordanthorpe or Beighton,
Spare a thought for Raymond’s dream
To be the next Len Deighton.