I drive, as lonely as a cloud,
My empty bus o'er Belstead Hills.
A queue one day saw I, a crowd,
Showing their collective wills.
At the stop, beneath the trees,
Alas! my plight they would not ease.
Stood back, did they, all in line,
None giving me the time of day.
They waited for a bus - not mine -
And merely waved me on my way.
Should I stop? a bold advance,
Would one come aboard, perchance?
The kids among them danced; but they
Probably would travel free:
A driver could not help but say
'I do not want their company'.
I drive and drive, but often thought
How very few my bus has caught.
For oft, when for new fares I ply,
In vacant - known as 'empty mode',
An Ipswich Bus goes flashing by,
Full occupied, along the road,
And how my heart with sadness fills,
To hear the other driver's trills.