I want to be a brakeman,
Dog gone!
Legs hangin' over the edge of a flat car,
Train goin' 'bout twenty-five miles 'n hour,
Kickin' the dog-fennel 'long the track —
That's what a brakeman does.
I want to be a brakeman,
I jing!
Makin' the boys git off the platform,
Cussin' the drayman if the skids is lost.
Hollers, ' Back 'er a len'th,' and engineer has to —
That's a brakeman for ye!
No conductor for me, just a brakeman,
By hen!
Can make a couplin' on the dead run,
Has spring-bottom pants 'n' braid on his clothes,
Carries a lantern at night 'n' cap over his ears —
That's a brakeman, I'll tell ye!
I want to be a brakeman,
Geeminently!
Stand in with agents and op'rators,
Gits to Peru every night 'n' sees a show,
Knows the numbers of the trains, chaws tobacker —
He's a regular one, you bet!
'N' I want to be head brakeman,
Gol-lee!
Twistin' 'er hard, smoke rollin' 'round y'u,
Country people stoppin' work to look,
Girls wavin' at y'u all the way to Peru;
I'll be one, too, some day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
So many jobs look heroic and dripping with masculinity that even women are taken in by the attractiveness of the fireman and lineman and cowboy