THE SUBWAY CAR
The surface car is a poky car,
It stops ’most every minute.
At every corner someone gets out
And someone else gets in it.
It stops for a lady, an auto, a hoss,
For any old thing that wants to cross,
This poky old, stupid old, silly old, timid old, lumbering surface car.
Up on high against the sky
The elevated train goes by.
Above it soars, above it roars
On level with the second floors
Of dirty houses, dirty stores
Who have to see, who have to hear
This noisy ugly monster near.
And as it passes hear it yell,
“I’m the deafening, deadening, thunderous, hideous,
competent, elegant el.”
Under the ground like a mole in a hole,
I tear through the white tiled tunnel,
With my wire brush on the rail I rush
From station to lighted station.
Levers pull, the doors fly ope’,
People press against the rope.
And some are stout and some are thin
And some get out and some get in.
Again I go. Beginning slow
I race, I chase at a terrible pace,
I flash and I dash with never a crash,
I hurry, I scurry with never a flurry.
I tear along, flare along, singing my lightning song,
“I’m the rushing, speeding, racing, fleeting, rapid subway car.”