by Frank J. Hornsby
The sounds of its wheels, going clackity clack,
as slowly it moves, down the winding track.
Black smoke bellowing, from its towering stack,
flowing down the length, of its strong steel back.
Cinders and ash, like fireworks filling the air,
carrying its passengers, from here to there.
As the scenery rolls by, out the window they stare,
relaxed and comfortable, as if home in their chair.
Thru the night you can hear, its lonesome whistle blowing,
looking like a cyclops, its one eye brightly glowing.
Trudging ever onward, on steep slopes barely slowing,
carrying its passengers safely, to where they are going.
Now the stinking diesels, have come to take their place,
no longer enjoying scenery, at a leisurely pace.
Now it's like a fast forwarded movie, stuck in your face,
as down the tracks, the smelly things deadly race.
I know progress, is always going to be a necessity,
to keep up with this world, and the way it has to be.
But how I long once more, to just look and see,
that old iron horse, coming down the track at me.
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