Fifteen little creatures dancing round the train,
pulling at hydraulics and making themselves a pain.
The conductor is already nursing a broken arm.
He’s exited the train, away from further harm.
Head wrapped up in bandages, arm in a stopgap sling.
Reporting to head office: “They’re nasty, vicious things.”

Congregating at the cab are eight more little creatures.
Uncompromising malice upon their ugly features.
The driver’s had enough. He’s balled up on the floor.
While reaching, grasping hands, prod through cracks around the door.
He’s desperately praying for assistance to arrive
but even if the train is fixed he’s in no state to drive.

Romping in the corridor, there’s seven creatures more.
Commuters scream and shout. They’re unhappy, to be sure.
One’s riding on a stockbroker; pulling on his hair.
One’s sharpening its claws while blood pools upon the chair
While she makes a run for it, one is clobbered by a nun
but, trapped with the hydraulics down, she’s quickly overrun.

Next station down the line the people all complain.
They are already late. Where is the infernal train?
They’re blissfully unaware of this supernatural blitz
All the announcements say is ‘… delayed by thirty minutes’.


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