The Twerlies Poem by Phil Ward

God bless the pensioners bus pass,
And the council who at sixty two,
Opened up my front door,
For travelling and so much more,
I salute you and give you praise,
For brightening up my twilight days.

The only point I want to make,
Is why restrict for goodness sake?
The time when I can catch a bus,
To ten o'clock and make us wait,
Until the jobbers are at work,
A crazy notion of some clerk,
We think the council's gone berserk.

So there we are in line at ten,
Or was it nine or quarter to,
"Too early" shouts the operator,
Push off home and come back later,
We make him shout by feigning deafness,
Puff and wheeze to show we're breathless,
But he's having none of that,
The jobsworth, heartless little prat.

We'll get the next at quarter to,
I can't believe he yelled at us
to come back for a later bus,
We're standing here all eight of us,
In the cold for goodness sake,
You wait I'll give him such earache.

Here it comes the bus for town,
Jack you wave your arms around,
Do your impression of a circus clown,
On second thoughts Mary show some leg,
And get us on this bus instead
of waiting here till ten o'clock,
We're looking like a laughing stock.

"You're too early" aren't you lass,
It says ten o'clock on your bus pass,
You can't get on until that time,
You're going to have to wait in line
and get the next one as it says,
Except on Sundays and Saturdays.

So there it is, how we got our name,
The councils fault we're not to blame,
We're the Twerlies short and sweet,
The nicest folk you'll ever meet,
Yes we're pensioners old and grey,
But we're wide awake at the break of day.