Standing on the platform, queued up two or three deep,
Just like a crowd of Zombies, all walking in their sleep
Propped up like the living dead, waiting for the train,
Wake up, jump on and grab a seat, and then doze off again!

Thon boyo in the corner there - must be in the building trade,
If he plasters walls like he does his jeans, he’ll surely make the grade.
He wears a yellow plastic hat, and a shirt like a lumberjack,
And when the tail of it rides up, you can see right down his . . . underwear!

The bloke in front is different – some kind of big-time banker,
Suit and tie, and stripey shirt, and a face like a total . . .  plonker
Talking loudly on his phone, to his ‘agent in Mumbai’
Dropping a foreign phrase or two, to impress the Hoi Polloi
He must think we’re all soooo jealous, with his self important air,
But he might be calling the talking clock, for all we feckin’ care!

Beside him, a computer geek – Granny Glasses on his nose,
He’s dressed just like a fella that has stole a scarecrow’s clothes.
He’s plugged in to his ipod, volume turned up to the sky,
His head must just be booming like a Lambeg in July
He’s working on his laptop, with an all-consuming need,
Fingers flying on the keyboard, like an octopus on speed
You’d think the world and all its works on that program depend
If he doesn’t get it working, sure the universe will end!

He’s got the latest mobile phone, but he never gets real calls
He just lives his life on Facebook, with his electronic pals
Typing ‘Hi, I’m sitting on the train’, or to list his latest whim,
Who the hell would give a sh-t, except another twit like him?
He posts videos on YouTube, taken with his funky phone
He describes them as ‘Hilarious’, but they just make people groan.
He has ‘mates’ in Albuquerque, Singapore, New York and Rome,
But he hasn’t got a girlfriend, and his nights are spent at home.
 
There’s a crowd of kids up the far end, with Ma and Da there too,
Though you might think from all the noise, they were monkeys from the Zoo
Climbing, jumping on the seats, like lunatics on the run
While Mammy sits like a ton of lard, just saying “Stop that, Son”
Screaming ‘TRIXIEBELLE  HIT  MEEEE’, and crying them fake tears,
A testament to modern life, and the shortage of thick ears!
There’s an Oul Doll sitting just in front, with a woolly hat and glasses,
And steely eye that shows she’d know how to redden a few asses!

Thon lassie in the corner, has the phone glued to her ear,
Bringing her mates all up to speed on the gossip of the year.
It is just like Bloody Hollyoaks, and all shouted down the phone,
With expressions and hand signals, just like she was alone!
She was totally plastered last weekend, does not remember much,
But woke up in someone’s garden, lying under a bush!
Her best friend Kylie got engaged to her dreamboat boyfriend, Wayne,
And then she caught him snogging with her cousin, Mary Jane
And Tyrone is dating Annabelle, but she fancies his mate Gerry,
But he’s doing a strong line with a BLOKE from Portaferry!

Then everybody gives a groan, as the train slows to a crawl,
We stop in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by feck all!
The cows are stareing from the fields, thinking ‘Look - a people truck’
While the passengers stare blankly back, all as bored as . can be
They’re having signal problems, there’s leaves upon the line,
The snow we had here last weekend was simply the wrong kind
There’s a bomb scare at Kilwilkie, the train in front’s broke down,
The Enterprise from Dublin was slow in coming down!
No one is really listening, for the reason doesn’t’ matter –
Just get the damn thing going, and cut out all the natter!
When it staggers in to Belfast, they are all up on the floor,
Half a mile before it’s in, they are queueing at the door,
Fighting to be first one out, to gain a couple of hops
I paid them for that bloody seat – I’ll sit there till it stops!

You get the same at each evening, hurrying home again
Same people, same old faces, but a bit more cheerful then!
And lots of others there as well, from every land and nation
You see the world and all it’s works, at Belfast Central Station

There’s a fella with a bicycle, he takes it on the train,
It is surely grand for keeping fit, but not great in the rain,
His cycling shorts are wringing wet, the padded arse is baggin’
He would probably be drier if he’d swum across the Lagan!
He’s dripping like a broken tap, and looks a total prat,
But at least he’s guaranteed a space – his puddle sees to that!

There’s a bunch of lassies at the station, heading for the city.
Going for a big night out, dressed up to look so pretty.
Clothes like them wee news reports you’d see sometimes on Sky –
Should just cover the essentials, but must catch the viewer’s eye!
Skirts that are like pelmets, in keeping with the fashion
Every time they bend a bit, you can see tomorrow’s washing!
Wee tops that show their belly, with their bra straps all displayed,
Not cloth enough to tighten up a loose head on a spade!
And they must not have a mirror in their houses at home either,
Some of them have thighs that would shame a Charolais heifer!

Sometimes I’d get the Dublin train - it’s called the Enterprise
It does not stop in Lurgan – mind you, that’s no surprise!
There’s businessmen on mobiles, reporting on their meetings,
They’re using total jargon-speak, and weird abbreviations,
They must leverage the FOBQ, to maximise the TLC,
And whip off a rapid voicemail, to the VP in NYC
They’re all Tiger economists, doing their cross-border tradin’
Then there’s oul dolls up for shoppin’, ‘cos ‘da proices is a-mazin!’
There’s lots of loud Americans, in clothes you’d never wear.
And explosion in paint shop would be too drab to compare
All seeking their ancestral home – they’d bend your ear for hours
They jest know Grandad was Irish – he was pickled in John Powers!

Some weekends in wintertime, when the Rugby is in town,
You get the Campbell College Chaps, on late train, heading down.
All speaking slightly loudly, in accents fraightfully naice,
All dressed expensive casual, with voices like crushed ice,
Staying for the weekend, in the Gresham, with their pals
To see some rough young gentlemen, play with their odd-shaped balls!

There’s people up on guided tours, to see around Belfast
Of all the places in the world, you’d think it would be last!
They’ve got a bus to run them round the Shankill and the Falls,
And show them all the ‘muriels’ drawn on the gable walls!
They are huddled in the station foyer, all as nervous as a kitten,
You’d think that if a car backfired, the whole lot would be . . really frightened!

Then there are the readers, who leave all this behind,
And sail away to a different world, purely in their mind.
With Dan Brown or J K Rowling, Robert Ludlum, John Grisham,
Catherine Cookson, Danielle Steele – and that is just the MEN!
There’s fellas reading football mags, and ladies with Hellos,
The girls in all the photos have some problems with their clothes
There’s people reading newspapers, in keeping with their views –
Some reading the News Letter, and some the Irish News
Their headlines shout in letters black, their tales of shame or glory
You’d never guess to look at them, they’re reporting the same story!