Bloody¹ men are like bloody buses

You wait for about a year

And as soon as one approaches your stop

Two or three others appear.

You look at them flashing their indicators²，

Offering you a ride.

You're trying to read the destinations，

You haven't much time to decide.

If you make a mistake， there is no turning back.

Jump off， and you'll stand there and gaze

While the cars and the taxis and lorries go by

And the minutes， the hours， the days.

Wendy Cope， 1945-