Nine O'Clock Local Poem by Robert Macmillan

NINE O'CLOCK LOCAL–69
(Five O'Clock Call)


Conductor; Holler–-Out you plans
Ready-Up the motorman's command
When wake-up calls, at
A 'quater' to five
One thousand horses;
Rally–up... Are heard their cry
Rambunctiously awaiting,
Charging–Up their daily pride
Ready for their mood of stride
Eight hour prance... The steel-laid track
One High-Ball romp... Full Gallop... Forth & Back
Over mountain; Through the open countryside
Searching for that better, nick of time
Once Big John Burlly... Takes his common of place;
Inside the throttle's–hut; Set–Comfortably incased
Who's also waiting on,
The building–pressure's ply
To release the brake-shoe's... Slowly; Heard, their squealing cry
Release, the spinning wheels reply
Yet–Responding! Are the 'Sanders' opened wide
As the brakeman signals; Waving–Lantern, be his silent cry
' High-Ball! ' The locomotive drive;
'Let loose the horses' ' Let-Em fly'
' Let's 'Rock & Roll' mountain's wind'
'Might even that we break the record time'
' You one thousand horses, earn your prize'
A sauna; Steam–Bath
A lightened, unbridled load
When come back; Delivered
Of what once was stowed
And once again, Is heard:
Big John's whistle, Opened wide
While headed for the round-house turn
And shut-down... Cleaned & Stalled
What one-thousand horses'
Earned they all:
A record-breaking
Five o'clock
Morning's
Call