Sardines

I always thought you needed fins
To get packed into sardine tins
But we all form a perfect cube
When we are travelling on the Tube
With someone's armpit by my head
I fear the smell may knock me dead
This situation must improve
I cannot breathe, I cannot move
I need no balance, not at all
If this train brakes I cannot fall
My fellow sardines hold me firm
This little fish can't even squirm
While moving down inside the cars
Is less likely than going to Mars
There is no room within this tin
The only way to squeeze more in
Is travelling as the sardines go
With everyone packed head to toe