My ‘Baby on Board’ badge is pinned to a prominent position on my coat,
As I board the Jubilee, the priority seat is snapped up by a speedy bloke,
He looks right at me, then my badge, bump and quickly averts eyes to his phone,
Which hums while colours ping across the screen…so here is a man fully grown,
Suited, booted, forty-ish, playing Candy Crush and not offering me his seat,
Does he not think it might be hard balancing this extra weight on these feet?
Does he not think… hold up, maybe I can play Candy Crush standing up?
Cause imagine if it was my mum or my girlfriend up the duff,
Maybe they’d be feeling pretty rough, maybe they’d be finding pregnancy tough,
Maybe she doesn’t want to swing around, because maybe she’s feeling sick,
Maybe I am a selfish prick, taking up a priority seat for my miniscule dick,
Maybe I’ve prioritised myself enough and it’s time to think about someone else,
Maybe more important than my candy crush league, is someone else’s health,
But he just concentrates harder on his screen and shuffles his feet,
I HATE HIS SHOES
He dares to mock me in moccasins?
That’s it, I can’t take any more – I declare war,
I start rubbing my stomach,
Face pained, I puff, sigh and make sounds of despair,
While staring at a patch on his head which used to be hair,
People start to look at him in disgust,
Aghast by his refusal to move,
But he doesn’t do a thing, he doesn’t stir,
My eyes are now clouded by red blur,
A woman jumps up and offers her seat,
But it’s his seat I want now,
I want to sit on the seat warm from his farts,
and fantastise about tearing his body apart.
I move my bump closer towards him, shoving my Baby on Board badge in his face,
A sensisble inner voice squeaks ‘You’ll be done for harassment, calm down Grace’
Well that voice has never been loud enough,
and now the nausea is off, my chest burns and I’m swaying,
PING PING goes his Candy Crush thing…
He seems completely unaware of the rage he has unleashed.
Of the gastric reflux climax that is about to be reached,
Meanwhile his game is reaching its peak,
I am feeling faint and weak and just about to vomit,
All over his phone, that’ll shut up its little ping ping tone,
and then all over his smug little face,
the colourful fruits on his screen soon replaced
with real pieces of food, last seen on yesterday’s dinner plate,
But suddenly I hear an automated:
‘This is Warren Street’
I have to accept defeat,
He won, I didn’t get my seat,
But that man is out there,
Crushing Candy as we speak,
And in 3 months time,
I’ll find him and go into labour
on his mockisoned feet.
