I've noticed the blank stares and drawn faces when I ride the train in the morning rush hour. The working class must work hard, every day, just to get by. Every morning, they pack themselves in to the train, just like a herd of cattle.
Every morning, that damned ritual begins
The walking dead, struggling for life
Broken souls that pollute the cold, damp air
Heading toward the tunnel, where there is no light
Man behind the booth's in charge of the tickets
Cheshire cat grin as he sees the line form
There's a perverse pleasure in watching others suffer
Swallowing one with feelings of joy and warmth
The stench of rotting flesh fills the station
Some vomit, others pass out, but no one cares
Coughin' up internal organs isn't an uncommon sight
It's truly quite a mess, but they stay there
That familiar rumbling can only mean one thing
The train has finally pulled in, to take them away
Screeching to a halt on the bones of the weak
Zombies stagger aboard to start their precious day
Conductor slams the spiked doors shut, with a fury
Most slip through, while others are torn to shreds
His shriek is deafening as he starts the train
Can't wait until tomorrow to do it all again
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