GOING NO PLACE FAST

GOING NO PLACE FAST

I caught a bus at half-past three,
It had no driver I could see,
Wheels were square, windows laughed,
Yet still it travelled very fast.

The conductor wore a paper head,
“Where are you going?” so I said,
He punched my ticket, tipped his hat,
And whispered, “Nowhere—fancy that.”

We passed a town made out of clocks,
Where people lived in cardboard boxes,
They wound themselves each afternoon,
Then went to bed beneath the moon.

A lady climbed aboard at four,
Her shadow waited by the door,
She carried Tuesday in a sack,
But Thursday stole it from her back.

The road curled up into the sky,
A flock of kettles hurried by,
One gave a whistle, one poured rain,
Then all flew south towards Spain.

“We’re going no place very fast,”
The paper-headed man then laughed,
“We’ll reach it just before we leave,
Unless the road forgets to breathe.”

The bus sped on but never moved,
The passengers all disapproved,
A snail went racing past our side,
And waved at us with foolish pride.

At last I reached my own front door,
Though I had never left before,
I checked my watch—it said half-past,
I’d gone to no place much too fast.