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Voices travel on rubber bands,
Tin cans, whispering secrets,
They bounce to their poles as they glissade,
Our stationary carriage paid,
By a couple of queenies on paper.
Past the paper-brick boxes made,
By overgrown children armed with PVA,
This world has never seemed so toysome as we pass.
Rail-iron staccato,
A train-pass crescendo,
A sudden blast,
Not unlike this cobbled quiet between friends woken too early.
