Well, I'm not late for the bus this morning,

I recognise a few of the faces at the stop,
There's the two love birds clinging on,
And the short balding man and the other man in overalls.
There's the mature lady with smashing glasses,
And the pretty young mum with her baby son.
Well, this must be the right bus I'm on,
The loud West Indian lady's talking to her friend,
The gentle giant man with his bright green lunchbox,
And the uniformed young man have got on at the next stop,
The same stop where the blond surgery assistant got off.
Every morning I can tell I'm on the right bus,
Without ever having to look at my watch,
Because these people are no longer strangers,
And I know they all recognise me.
But strangers we are and strangers we do remain,
For no-body says 'hello' to one they've never known before.
If I got on another bus whether I was early or late,
Then truely a stranger amongst strangers I would be.