Running down the street,
Pushing people off their feet,
Throwing your hands up in the air,
Thinking “do i have the correct fare?”
The bus driver begins to shut the door,
But it ain’t suppose to leave till four,
He don’t care about that though,
He gotta get home to work on his mo.
You bang on the door pleading to be let in,
You even offer to buy him a bottle of Gin,
But he drives off and cackles to himself,
And you can’t help but think,
“I wanna punch him in the mouth”.