In their wool blend suits

And Primani boots

Crusaders on a mission  

Like jockeys before the National

They jostle for position

As the 7:22 snakes into view

They anticipate her breaks

She grinds unto a squeaking halt

Before the incumbents make their escape

Hands in pockets lined in pockets

Aligned to the doors

They brace and embrace the putrid heat

Swim toward a solitary seat

Like sperm, most a lost cause

Carriages creak, telephones beep

The scenery passes by

Sardines tinned day after day

Each time a small piece of them dies

The doors finally open

To gasps for polluted fresh air

Reaching for passes

The swarms of the masses

Ignore the rules of the stairs

The barriers now automated

A final check point before freedom

Pauper monarchs now motivated

Ready to rule their kingdom