My local railway station

Is very scruffy

The paint is peeling

And exposes a heavy rust

But we all ignore this

And read our newspapers

Whilst waiting for the morning train

The smart station master

Tells us all that Bobla Ress

Was built with scruffiness in mind

Which is not really understood

By the scores of philosophers

Who commute to the vast city

On a daily basis and thrice at weekends

I am one of these philosophers

My name is Martin