He hurries through the city streets
As sprightly as a flea
And turns into the station yard
For the seven fifty three.
He settles in his corner seat
With newspaper on knee.
It’s every day the same routine
On the seven fifty three.
He never speaks, he never looks,
And doesn’t notice me.
When he gets off, where does he go
From the seven fifty three?
How does he spend his working hours?
What does he do and see?
Who thinks of him, who shares his life –
Mr Seven Fifty Three?
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