They sniffle, whine, whinge and complain
Shuffle and sigh as they file aboard the train
Weary and defeated, unfulfilled and depleted
They stare aimlessly at nothing, bored, inane
These poor impoverished souls
Trekking home to hovels and holes
They know not the joy of the impossible machine
That cranks, turns, brakes, climbs and rolls
Artarmon station, finally my escape is made
The Barry, for my steed, I would gladly trade
‘Tis true, The Muggles’ plight is bleak and desperate
A sedentary state from which they will not be swayed