Every cushion on a London tube
Has a shape of a butt.
Some big, some small,
Some high, some low,
Like the vicissitudes their enforcers.
When I decide on a seat,
My fate concurs with the cushion’s properties.
As I sit on a fat butt,
My bowels move faster and
I crave the Tesco sandwich
Possessed by my left-hand neighbor.
When it becomes unbearable,
I’d have to stand up for a while,
Fending off my destiny,
As I am destined to.