Wheels on the bus go round and round
Once everyone sang my song, now, few do. Or maybe I just don't hear it. Well, it does not matter. My wheels still go round and round. The roads have become bumpier and my joints groan, but still I run true as time goes by.
Once I was painted yellow. Children jumped up my frame and ran through my corridor with crying plenty of sounds like bird calls to monkey hoots. Restless hands rattled my window planes. Heads constantly creped out of my windows, only to jerk back in when a man called Chacha shouted at them. My thoughts went gaily to my years as a young bus. Those were good years.
Then, the accident happened. I cried, I roared, my exhausted wildly spurted out smoke and my engine clattered .... it was all in vain. When there's a driver at the seat, controlling you, What can you do?
She died, that little child. Her head was first knocked by my bumper, throwing her on the ground and then... then... round, rotating wheels crushed over her. I don't know if any one heard it, I don't know if anyone felt it, but I did. My tires crunched her bone and the sound rang out.
The bus driver ran out, he escaped somewhere far. Another man drove me to a relatively quiet junkyard. True, for the most part it was quiet, but occasionally I heard something. Cutting and crushing of metal. Even in the corner of the junkyard I heard them crying out. They cried to be saved, but what could I do? Buses, vans, cars, all of them cried out. With no driver how could I do anything?
One day they came to get me after gathering dust and rust. It was not the first time I've seen them. When I was new born, they were the first one to board me. 'Inspection' they called it.
In their shirts, pants and their writing pad, all of them nodded their head and then, once again I was driven.
What joy I felt. Breeze brushed against my windscreen, skidded by my sides, my old tired rumbled on the ground.
I was built brand new again! A new paint coat, new set of tires and a fresh layer of grease.
From rusty yellow, I took on bright red. Oh boy, I can tell you I was beaming.
People started using me. It was no more just children, they were adults, students and kidoos - a wide variety of people. The conductor was called Master. He squeezed through the crowd, always clattering away with his ticket puncher and haggling for change.
People charged to get inside and around the city I travelled. It was good, I was supposed to live forever helping people get from one point to another.
I died in a burning blaze. It was some political protest. Metal, plastic, paint, cushion, everything burned, everything part of me. I died.
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