Bloody men are like bloody buses β You wait for about a year And as soon as one approaches your stop Two or three others appear. You look at them flashing their indicators, Offering you a ride. Youβre trying to read the destinations, You havenβt much time to decide. If you make a mistake, there is no turning back. Jump off, and youβll stand there and gaze While the cars and the taxis and lorries go by And the minutes, the hours, the days.