| Well, the last time I remember
|
| That train stopping at the depot
|
| Was when me and my Aunt Veta
|
| Came riding back from Waco
|
| I remember I was wearing
|
| My long pants and we was sharing
|
| Conversation with a man
|
| Who sold ball-point pens and paper
|
| And the train stopped once in Clifton
|
| Where my Aunt bought me some ice cream
|
| And my Mom was there to meet us
|
| When the train pulled into Kopperl
|
| But now kids at night break window lights
|
| And the sound of trains only remains
|
| In the memory of the ones like me
|
| Who have turned their backs on the splintered cracks
|
| In the walls that stand on the railroad land
|
| Where we used to play and then run away
|
| From the depot man
|
| I remember me and brother
|
| Used to run down to the depot
|
| Just to listen to the whistle
|
| When the train pulled into Kopperl
|
| And the engine big and shiny
|
| Black as coal that fed the fire
|
| And the engineer would smile and say
|
| «Howdy, how ya fellows?»
|
| And the people by the windows
|
| Playing cards and reading papers
|
| Looked as far away to us
|
| As next summer’s school vacation |