East Croydon 1962
Trains, stopping trains and express trains,
Going to and from Victoria Station when it rains.
Occasionally stopping here briefly,
To this busy place as is just seen rightly.
Cars, busses and lorries, as if crushed together,
Weary looking people and exhausted in all weather.
Rushing about at the station like mad,
Tis a busy station with a huge crowd.
Worried faces of commuters tired and dreamy,
Some fresh, some bewildered and some barmy.
Yet others smiling and are full of joy,
Like the innocent children shy and coy.
Busy shopkeepers like hard toiling bees,
In their shops of just a few years lease.
Time to toil hard and make the most of it,
Seize the golden opportunity and don't just sit.
As long as the travellers are here,
They need your freshly brewed beer.
I too travel but on stopping trains,
Writing a letter or two to my friends.
Both sitting on the train and even though,
While walking when leaving the train to go.
I work nearby in a soft drink factory,
A real mad place looking like a huge groggery.
Never saw so many people assembled together,
Walking, shouting, running and climbing a ladder.
Dancing and going mad as it were , still happy and gay,
This is East Croydon Station in the rich land of Surrey.
Very much attached with East Croydon,
And now stuck in the overcrowed London.
I still see East Croydon as fresh in my mind,
Tis the one and only of its kind.
01.11.04
