We were sitting in a traffic jam in Quinton,
Backed way up to the church on the hill.
The passengers were getting hot and bothered,
Their fag smoke was making me ill.

But the bus stop came and went,
And I stayed all cramped and bent
On a seat designed for midgets with no knees.
The windows didn't work,
But you could make out through the murk
The lightning forking down through distant trees.

Number 9 bus, waiting at the station,
Number 9 bus, you mean the world to me.
Number 9 bus, you're truly my salvation,
I couldn't do without you, I really shouldn't doubt you...

The thunderstorm was getting even closer,
Humidity inside was off the scale.
The rain was playing Chopsticks on the rooftops,
The wipers were to almost no avail.

But another stop had passed,
I ignored it like the last,
Though my muscles soon would be completely numb.
Visibility was nil,
I had almost had my fill,
But I had to stick it out, so far I'd come.


As we pulled up in the bus bay at Bearwood,
Conditions in our 9 were getting grim,
The smoke and sweat and rain were all around us
And a little bit of fear was mixing in.

The stop I never even saw,
Victim of the weather's war,
A lightning bolt had sheared it clean in two.
But I knew our lonely Ark,
Ploughing onward through the dark,
Was the only hope I had to make it through.


We almost couldn't credit what we were seeing,
We'd made it to the promised land
The streets of Brum were dark and wet and dreary,
But the hour of salvation was at hand.

And the stop in Colmore Row
Suddenly was bathed in glow
From a sunbeam spearing down between the clouds.
The cathedral seemed to say,
"Stick by me, you'll be okay"
As our bus disgorged its weary, dirty crowds.