[Jayne Osborn]

As you'll see on the 'Speccie Any Questions' thread, John's away from his desk for a few days.
Here's the next comp but, despite the fact that I was on the London Underground (aka 'The Tube') only two days ago, I'm not as clever as John and can't just drum up a stupendous poem to kick off this thread... but I know lots of you can!

NO. 2710: TUBE TIMES
You are invited to supply a poem reflecting on the experience of travelling by Tube (16 lines maximum). Please email entries, if possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 17 August.

[Gail White]

I think we nonBrits will be out in the cold on this one, unless Chris can do something brilliant. Still, I have at times ridden on the tube, and it reminded me rather of my favorite verse by John Betjeman:

The Old Great Western Railway shakes,
The Old Great Western Railway spins.
The Old Great Western Railway makes
Me very sorry for my sins.

[Jayne Osborn]

I think we nonBrits will be out in the cold on this one

Oh, I don't know, Gail - isn't the US subway much the same as the UK tube?

When it comes to 'reflecting on the experience of travelling by Tube' I'm wondering whether anyone will dare to do a poem about the day Jean Charles de Menezes died.

[Roger Slater]

I often dream of London's 'Tube',
although I've never been there,
and so the dreams that I have dreamt
are conjured out of thin air.

From what I know of Britain, though,
from watching Dr. Who,
I'm pretty sure the dreams I dreamt
must by and large be true.

The people all seem nice at first
while traveling beneath
the streets of London Town, but they
have secret pointy teeth.

They're aliens who target Earth,
but Dr. Who's no rube.
He runs along the tracks, prevails,
and saves the London Tube.

[Mary Meriam]

This isn't humorous, but long ago I wrote about the Tube, or at least it was mentioned...

The inner-city sees her on the street.
She’s toughly dressed in jeans, a jacket, boots.
She takes the underground, but you won’t meet
this London goddess on your daily routes.
She’s shy. One look, she’s gone. One word, she’s out.
But where she goes, you’ll never know. She makes
you chase her, longing for some news about
her, when she reads or writes or sleeps or wakes.
It’s all a mystery, including why
the years race by, and still you deeply care.
You wonder if your feelings are a lie,
for all this time, you’re here, but she’s not there.

[Edmund Conti]

Let’s go down to the Tube, tra la
And visit all the stations.
With all the civil Brits. Tra la
And their very English patience.

I do not know my way around.
Is there a Convent Garden?
It’s such fun riding underground.
Excuse me. Beg your pardon.

If I keep riding long enough
Will I reach where I started?
The atmosphere is strong enough.
Oh goodness, someone farted.

Everyone just looks away,
You chaps, you are so proper.
Well, cheerio, I cannot stay.
I think I’ve come a cropper.

[Lance Levens]

The Subway? The Tube? Just to buzz around?
When did we befriend the underground?
It's a profoundly theological conundrum.
It's out with the head and up with the bum,
those ickies below and the wicked 'down there',
where critters gnash who need no hair,
where darkness and dampness and worms are king
and froggies go gulp and the birdies don't sing.

I fear old Milton himself is the cause.
Had he done the job right and followed the laws
he would have insured we'd never desire
to chill and thrill where there should be fire--
(whose purpose should not be to warm up your hands.)
I'm afraid the squinting poet commands
our nods on the general fall from grace,
but his Hell is, quite frankly, too nice a place.

[Jayne Osborn]

I do not know my way around.
Is there a Convent Garden?

Edmund, that made me laugh out loud! I was in...er, Covent Garden on Tuesday this week but from now on I will always think of it as Convent Garden

[Edmund Conti]

Jayne, I'm just going to pretend that I wrote that deliberately

[FOsen]

It's rank in places and the noise is loud;
It sports graffiti, here and there, beneath
Its coats of city grit—and that is just the crowd
Who’ve rushed or trudged to fill this gleaming sheath,

Which takes off in a hush of whirring metal.
Across from me, one glum old gent, alone,
Ignores our bright bough’s freshest, wettest petal,
A girl who’s just been jilted via phone.

But when she sobs, his handkerchief is offered;
Her seatmate, who’s been buried in her map,
Says, “He’s not worth it, Dear.” A hug is proffered.
We also serve, who only mind the gap,

And light her way with smiles at Southwark station.
As someone's cell phone plays “Amazing Grace”
I almost feel we’ve all earned dispensation
And may arrive at some same, better place.

Frank