ON THE BUS

By Aldous Huxley

Sitting on the top of the‘ bus,

I bite my pipe and look at the sky.

Over my shoulder the smoke streams out

And my life with it.

“Conservation of energy,” you say.

But I burn, I tell you, I burn;

And the smoke of me streams out

In a vanishing skein of grey.

Crash and bump... my poor bruised body!

I am a harp of twittering strings,

An elegant instrument, but infinitely second-hand,

And if I have not got phthisis it is only an accident.

Droll phenomena!