In crowded sidings, off branch lines narrow and dark,
The wagon beds are parked,
Shunted, pushed, and pulled by engines of tired blue and green,
And every shade of livery in between,
Huffing and puffing their every last drop of steam.
The cargos they ferry, sit patiently by, awaiting departure, perhaps a final goodbye.
While up at the station, stunning spaceships glisten and gleam,
Piloted by Misters, revered, clean and pristine.
24 crew perfuming incredible goals,
While two overnight engines care for 24 souls.
Graham Parker's Poetry 