J-Line in verse: From bad to worse.

J-Line, I thought you and I were meant to be.
I thought you might efficiently transport me
from home, to work, or dinner with a friend.
In my mind the possibilities had no end.
You were noble and indiscriminate with your service:
You hosted hobos and a hot girls with Gucci purses,
vagabonds, and working men who'd lost their souls,
displaced tourists, school kids, and even assholes.

J-Line I believed you had it all,
but as time passed by that religion would fall.
I longed for consistency, frequency and punctuality.
What you delivered was a far harsher reality.

Nextmuni told me you are coming in five.

But God only knows when you'll really arrive.

The estimate jumps from 4 to 15.

Nextmuni is your pimp and it's a lying machine.

You rarely arrive at appropriate times.
I'm lucky if you show up between 8:30 and 9.
You exist in knotted time and space.

Sometimes you never even show up to my place.

J-Line you're a whore, deceitful and shifty,
turning tricks for anyone who's got a buck fifty.
There are those who pay you a monthly fare.
It's for them that you seemingly do not care.
Your service is slow; barely adequate at most.
And why the fuck are we still stuck at Duboce?
You know what, J-line? I've had it with you.
I'm sick of your crowds and your incompetent crew;
that you convert to the K-Line, M-line or L.
I'm sick of your drivers and--Jesus, what is that smell!?
I'm tired of dodging wintry sheets of rain
while I'm standing here waiting, and waiting, and waiting in vain.

J-line you've failed me in so many ways:
you break down frequently on normal work days;
you show up 30 minutes after I'd thought;
then your A/C shuts off when it's crowded and hot.

You've taken my money, you've broken my heart.

So, fuck you, J-line.

I'm taking the BART.