In The Small Hours Poem by Gert Strydom
In The Small Hours
In the small hours the last train does past,
it travels with a lot of noise,
with a hooter that scolds shrilling
while it does gnash past
and the sound travels far,
sounding if that massive monster-like thing
will suddenly burst through your bedroom.
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5/6/2024 12:31:23 PM # 1.0.0.1119
