Poems by Harry Edwards

There in the corner sits District Line Train Car
Drinking his sorrows away at the bar
He dreamed of becoming a New York financier
With a big golden Rolex on his bright yellow handrails

On his fifth whiskey is District Line Train Car
Hand on his Temple where his front doors don't open
Trying to pinpoint the relevant crossroads
That sealed his fate to a life Underground

On his way home now is District Line Train Car
Trying to head eastbound but going in Circles
Telling passersby that he used to be a banker
Getting looks and eyerolls from the ones who think he's Barking