Buddhists

BUDDHISTS

Ill tell you about Buddhists, round here -
They are only part baked, and no ones finished them
Most are trying not to look at their fear,
But some are simply lacking a full set of slots, or pins,
Or something like that

Anyway you slice it, to get from Greenwich
Maritime to Paddington is two changes, but to insist
That one set of changes is superior to the other
Is but a routine error value for a Buddhist
Requiring no justification

And, castaways that we were, as a result
Wandering in the great windy spaces beneath towers
That babbled and staring into a deep muddy insult
To my intelligence, as I thought with aching feet
It dawned that he had meant Heron Quays

The result of which was more walking
Along a moving walkway at Waterloo, while scrutinising
Timetables to discover that his train was earlier than
What he had confidently stated, and so with tension rising
We abandoned all pretence of cool

Out of a sense of dutiful concern, without regard
For my Body Mass Index, we ran together up the flights of stairs
To emerge on Paddington's smooth bright tiled and hard
Concourse, though his train was a full fifteen minutes
Leaving before mine, what else is new?

Leaving me to survey a colourful carriage
Of sad laptop whackers and mobile tinklers, he hurtled off
And sitting in deep analysis ( that lasted oh, at least to Royal
Oak)
I realise that though Buddhists can easily sit and laugh and
scoff
At the rest of the world, they are at least as daft

And possibly the more so, given that they
Are the ones who know what such lustreless thought leads to
For all their inspiration, and desire to change (or so they say)
They can only meditate upon the way forward, they cannot walk
Forward and not get lost , or so it seems

The Buddhists round here , take my word for it
Are as far from reality as the paved and altered ground
Was that day from the top of Canary Wharf Tower, lost, no trace
On the Isle of Dogs - I ask you what can they think is found
By being an outsider , like the rest of us?