Listeners to the Creedon Show were asked to write in with "an uplifting experience on the way to work"
I leave the house at half past six,
Replete with tea and Weetabix,
And with a certain soupcon of self-pity.
Half-dazed I drive down country lanes,
Towards the tower blocks and cranes
That dominate the skyline of the city.
To keep myself awake, I note
Each fur and blood-bespattered coat
That contrasts with the enervating greenery.
There’s mice and cats and rats and crows
All laid out flat in sweet repose
To point accusing fingers at machinery.
The radio compounds the mood
With news of yet another feud,
And tragic stories all in quick succession.
And, as I near my place of work,
The car-horns seem to go berserk,
By which time I’m suffused by deep depression.
But, in the car park, I take stock
And gaze up at my tower block,
And rays of sunshine blow away the thunder.
It’s time now, near my journey’s end,
To go inside and then ascend
The famous Elevator of Great Wonder.
It’s spanking new, this tower block.
The lift, though, is an ancient crock
That once adorned an Eastern bloc apartment.
And every morning, squashed inside,
We take the feared white-knuckle ride
Up to the lofty inventory department.
Many people just can’t hack it,
Say it makes a fearful racket,
Others simply can’t abide the shaking.
But though our faces all turn white,
We clench our teeth and hold on tight,
And listen to the sound of stomachs quaking.
Penned in, like a herd of cattle,
Up and up and up we rattle,
Like a ride in Disneyworld, Orlando.
And yes, you’re right, there’s always one,
Pretending it’s firm ground he’s on,
Cool and unconcerned like Marlon Brando.
But most of us become alive,
As we ascend to ‘twenty-five’
With cobwebs blown away in violent fashion.
We pour out of the buckled door
Into the welcome corridor,
All ready to start working with a passion.
The ride in this demonic lift
That brings us to the twenty-fift’
Is borne by all our team quite resolutely.
To reach our goal and still survive
Makes sure we start the day alive.
An uplifting experience? Absolutely!
Replete with tea and Weetabix,
And with a certain soupcon of self-pity.
Half-dazed I drive down country lanes,
Towards the tower blocks and cranes
That dominate the skyline of the city.
To keep myself awake, I note
Each fur and blood-bespattered coat
That contrasts with the enervating greenery.
There’s mice and cats and rats and crows
All laid out flat in sweet repose
To point accusing fingers at machinery.
The radio compounds the mood
With news of yet another feud,
And tragic stories all in quick succession.
And, as I near my place of work,
The car-horns seem to go berserk,
By which time I’m suffused by deep depression.
But, in the car park, I take stock
And gaze up at my tower block,
And rays of sunshine blow away the thunder.
It’s time now, near my journey’s end,
To go inside and then ascend
The famous Elevator of Great Wonder.
It’s spanking new, this tower block.
The lift, though, is an ancient crock
That once adorned an Eastern bloc apartment.
And every morning, squashed inside,
We take the feared white-knuckle ride
Up to the lofty inventory department.
Many people just can’t hack it,
Say it makes a fearful racket,
Others simply can’t abide the shaking.
But though our faces all turn white,
We clench our teeth and hold on tight,
And listen to the sound of stomachs quaking.
Penned in, like a herd of cattle,
Up and up and up we rattle,
Like a ride in Disneyworld, Orlando.
And yes, you’re right, there’s always one,
Pretending it’s firm ground he’s on,
Cool and unconcerned like Marlon Brando.
But most of us become alive,
As we ascend to ‘twenty-five’
With cobwebs blown away in violent fashion.
We pour out of the buckled door
Into the welcome corridor,
All ready to start working with a passion.
The ride in this demonic lift
That brings us to the twenty-fift’
Is borne by all our team quite resolutely.
To reach our goal and still survive
Makes sure we start the day alive.
An uplifting experience? Absolutely!
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