It is a box with benches inside
We're sitted in rows up to five side by side
Big door on the side with a creaky slide
But in it we're sitted and on it we ride


Driver at wheels, conductor at the door
Screams routes and fares at the top of his lungs
One by one we boarded and sitted as such
All on the day's business and mostly to work


Forlon faces all around to see
By our expressions our thoughts you may read
Caught in a trap of the daily routine
A cycle that starts every workday like this


Through winding streets and bumpy roads
Rural life in the city all around on show
And five days a week every morning we go
Slaves of time to a master unknown


Most surely we dream either night either day
And the preacher's promises everyday we replay
That surely a miracle is coming our way
If we sow our seeds and hold fast to the faith


This morning as usual we queued at the stand
Somehow reminded, time waits for no man
And if any reflects on the truth, that a plan
Is the sole determinant to the outcome of man


Silently waiting and patient we stand
Tools for for the day's use all gathered in hand
Regimented in a cycle repeated everyday
Slave conveyor come and take us away