Peeve

The Queue‑Jumpers’ Lament

On the tube at rush hour, I stand in line,
A patient Brit, awaiting my turn,
When a sudden surge of elbow‑sharp design
Splits the calm like a faulty siren’s churn.

They slide ahead, with hurried sighs,
Believing the world bends to their haste,
While I clutch my ticket, wary eyes,
And wonder why politeness goes to waste.

My pet peeve? The queue‑jumpers’ creed,
A tiny fault that nests inside,
It rusts the courteous British creed,
And turns a simple ride to glum pride.

So let the signs remind, “Please wait your turn,”
And may the carriage hum with orderly grace—
For peace is found when each learns
To respect the line, and keep their place.