The Last 38 Routemaster Poem by C Richard Miles

The Routemasters are almost dead;
They’re facing an extinction dread.
Though some remain, it must be said,
On tourist routes, to earn their bread
But most have died and make their bed
To fossilize, and rust to red,
Like dinosaurs, but choose, instead,
To sleep in a scrap-merchant’s shed.

But I recall that time I saw
This living, breathing dinosaur.
With screeching brakes and engine’s roar,
It trod the streets without a claw
And everybody knew the score
Since they could hop on, with no door
And I am, almost, very sure
They were amazed by what they saw.

To Clapton Pond, that fateful day
When Routemasters all went away
I made my necessary way
To reach the bus stop, not to play,
Where waiting crowds assembled, they
Were holding out their hands to stay
The beast to board and ride and pay
Their fares in an unusual way.

For though these odd, obsessive folk
Held travelcards, I do not joke,
They paid, although it made them broke,
For ticket souvenirs to stoke
Their interest, from that kind bloke
The bus conductor chap, who spoke
And told us next day, when he woke
He’d lose his job, at one fell stroke.

The dinosaur had left its hutch
And now the driver loosed the clutch.
He didn’t have to act so butch:
It needed just a gentle touch.
To get the monster moving such
That down the road it made its rush.
The whole scene seemed so Double Dutch
To me, it didn’t matter much.

For I’d just gone to catch the bus
I didn’t know about the fuss
From anoraks who swore and cussed
About the blessed Bendybus
Who had, to satisfy their lust
Decided that they really must
Go ride that last Routemaster, just
Before it rode off into dust.

I sat upon the top front seat
As is my habit. (ain’t that sweet?)
The Routemaster rolled down the street,
Like drooling T-Rex hunting meat
It chased the cars, that seemed effete
Compare to our great monster’s feat
Of fitting in a whole, complete
Army of passengers, so neat.

Amazing scenes dawned on my sight
For, as we travelled, there was light
For flashbulbs blinked so white and bright
Some on the left, some on the right
To catch that last recorded flight
Of our doomed bus, whose awful plight
Was to (though it does not seem right)
Go gently into that good night.

The passengers told many tales
Some came from Switzerland and Wales
And there were several springbok males
Who’d made the pilgrimage, by rails
And planes to catch, before it pales
This final sight, as large as Whales
Of Routemasters. My memory fails
To recall if they chewed their nails:

Their plan had nearly gone amiss
To tick the boxes on their lists
And so they worried that they’d miss
Their final chance to catch some bliss
And ride on Routemasters like this
As down the road they roar and hiss
Their brakes when manic motorists
Get in their way and shake their fists.

For they, when young, had used, as boys
Routemaster models for their toys
And said it gave them many joys
And, when they grew up, made a noise
To find a person who employs
Drivers of buses, in convoys
So they could work. with skill and poise
On public transport as their choice.

As on the thirty-eight we trailed
Our interest, it never paled
For on our route, we were regaled
By information, as we sailed
From stop to stop, it never failed,
From an ex-driver who had hailed
From South London, as he detailed
The trivia that our route availed.

No engine make he did not spot;
No number plate escaped the slot
In that vast memory he’d got
He knew them all; he knew the lot.
And as along the road we shot
And met another bus, he’d jot
Some notes and tell us, on the spot
Each fact about it, dot by dot.

As we went along he jawed
As Hackney Central, Balls Pond Road
Angel, Islington all poured
Along our route, and soon I snored
At Sadler’s Wells where dancers strode
And, as through Bloomsbury it roared,
The Routemaster itself got bored
Until at Centrepoint it slowed.

Folk forged great friendships on the way
They talked, unlike a normal day
Some found, to their amazement, they
Had things in common, true to say
One small Swiss fraulein, old and grey
Passed a remark quite small and stray
And found her seatmate’s birthplace lay
In the next town so far away.

What’s more, this unfamiliar two
Had friends in common whom they knew.
And so this couple started to
Converse in German, pleased to chew
The fat and find each other’s view
On this and that. They told us, too
In English that they’d come to do
This final trip. out of the blue.

For they, and many folk I bet,
Had seen it on the Internet
And out on journeys long had set
For many days and just to get
To see this dinosaur’s last jet
Along the route. They had to net
This one last time, not to forget,
In order never to regret.

We soon passed Soho’s streets. Then led
Down Shaftesbury Avenue, we read
The theatre billboards bold which said
What plays were on and there, ahead,
That cupid, Eros raised its head.
The Routemaster, that beast, near dead
On Piccadilly swiftly sped
To reach the Ritz, all wreathed in red.

Now it was getting very late
As we approached in grand estate
The stop outside the palace gate
Where I got off the bus to wait
And change to catch a number eight
Just down the road to meet a mate.
And though my journey had been great
I couldn’t stay to see the fate

Of the last ever, momentous
Arrival of that most famous
Routemaster London omnibus.
Which left the stage without a fuss
And which had given all of us
A most exhilarating buzz.
I’d not expected this, and thus
It was an unexpected plus.

Now in conclusion, I must say
I had to take, the following day
The bus again along the way
That it had trod but in dismay:
My journey, this time was so grey
As Bendybuses, here to stay
Snaked in and out of traffic. They
Sulked and simply wouldn’t play

The games the long lost buses did
They whimpered, pouted, stalled and hid
At corners and they caused a grid
Lock to form as cars must skid
Around them and avoid a kid
Who tried to cross – a daring bid.
I wished that we now could get rid
Of Bendybuses. Yes I did.

For Routemasters, though almost dead;
Should never face extinction dread,
Like dinosaurs, and just be led
To sleep in a scrap-merchant’s shed.
To fossilize, and rust to red,
But should remain, it must be said,
On many routes, to earn their bread
Where they can raise a noble head,

With screeching brakes and engine’s roar,
And tread the streets without a claw.
So, now you really know the score
And you’ll recall that time I saw
This living, breathing dinosaur,
You’ll wish one stopped outside your door
And you’ll agree, I'm very sure,
You’d be amazed by what you saw.