They dash along, the people stare,
Their acrid fumes, doth fill the air,
They may be fast, but beauty's sad.
Compared to what the railway had.
Their build is nothing but a tram,
Both ends we see, are but the same,
They come and go relentlessly,
But ne're a welcome flame to see.
No friendly puffs of snow white steam,
Which used to be the railmans dream,
No safety valves to rend the air,
And make the cows and horses stare.
The diesel seems inanimate,
No moving parts in syncopate,
No matter how we think of them,