Bloody men are like bloody buses You wait for about a year And as soon as one approaches your stop Two or three others appear.
You look at them flashing their indicators, Offering you a ride. You're trying to read the destinations, You haven't much time to decide.
If you make a mistake, there is no turning back. Jump off, and you'll stand there and gaze While the cars and the taxis and lorries go by And the minutes, the hours, the days.
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