At the rear, an organ,
installed in the caboose
Began the slow, slow march,
while the wind mourned and blew.
O most blessed and damned of women,
so greatly loved!
I know by my dreams that your own
have never died.
Before there was Egypt or Troy,
you were a slave.
Before Tristram or Abelard,
your face was pale.
While poets made heaven and hell
to prove your charms
Your passion, beauty, grief and joy
slept in my arms.
With all that space to explore,
how could I resist?