Mercedes lined up in a row;
The taxi business rather slow,
So drivers chatting in the shade
A scrawny pair of trees have made.
“Is this the proper stop for us?”
A couple waiting for the bus
Explains just where they want to go.
A driver breaks off in mid-flow
To say “endaxi”, “yes, that’s fine”
Then watches them walk down the line
To reach the taxi at the end
Its driver is in fact the friend
He’s talking to, last to arrive
While he’s the next one due to drive.
Imagine then his wounded pride
As they demurely step inside.
A minute goes by, five or ten
Of heat inside the car and then
They re-emerge – know they’ve misheard
That single, helpful cheery word
And seeking to avoid a fuss
They scurry off to find their bus.
