The poet with a bus pass,
boarded the number 63
that left from the edge of the town.
Now he rushed red, scraping
...
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This is witty, and very true. There is not much of a difference between a lunatic, a poet and a lover, said Shakespeare, they create world which has no relevance to the real. Since your poet here has done that, I strongly resisit the temptation of buying a ticket and be out in a bus on my poetic voyage,
a rarity sometimes for me - it made me laugh!