Six cubic square metres. Space teeters.
Six bunks for warm souls. Sheets full of holes.
Sun beating in from the west. No rest.
Mountains to the east. Facing it with a feast.
Crispy chips and crunching cake. Smelly food they did take.
Coughing and spluttering. Aisle cluttering.
Masks off blowing noses. Ring a ring of roses.
Hot as a desert sauna. Flying biting fauna.
Whatever is that smell? Food bell! Food bell!
Smooth until the shunts. Wheels at the stunts.
Clickety-clack along the long track. No way back.
ACTON28: AGAINST THE FLOW OF TRAFFIC 