In The Long-Grass Poem by Stephen Brian Brady

Strungalong the platform
at some isolated station
on a one-way track to somewhereville
an unknown destination

they'll listen for it's hootin
some will say it wails
aleapin and aroarin
as it thunders 'long the rails

annd fingers grasp the handles
of the luggage worth the takin
and there's about their choosin
and what they have foresaken

who'll shuffle down the incline
allow it all to pass
and hopin no-one's seen us
hiding in the grass