We were having cocktails on the platform,
Me and my Daffodil, who was pollinating
My mouth with little kisses, yes she was.
It was dark, but the proprietor had set up
Brooding lamps for us to flutter around.
The tracks were little lit fuses burning under
The moonlight, the train perhaps a plunger
With the gray-sleeved bandit ready to set.
It was the train we were waiting for,
The train that kept its own time, made its own
Moves, wore a little stovepipe hat as it fumed
About the markets and the headlines.
My Daffodil was becoming daffy,
And all of god’s children began to urinate softly
In the soft, soft whimpering rain, and still
The train would not come any closer,
Which is known in the industry as a shy train.