| At suburban railway stations you may see them as you pass,
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| There are signboards on the platform saying, «Wait here second class»;
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| And to me the whirr and thunder and the clunk of running gear,
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| Seem to be forever saying, saying «Second class wait here»
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| Yes the second class were waiting in the days of serf and prince,
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| And the second class are waiting, they’ve been waiting ever since,
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| There are gardens in the background, and the line is bare and drear,
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| Yet they wait beneath a signboard, sneering «Second class wait here.»
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| I have waited in the winter, in the mornings dark and damp,
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| When the asphalt platform glistened underneath that lonely lamp,
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| And the wind among the poplars and the wires that thread the air,
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| Seem to be forever snarling, snarling, «Second class wait here.»
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| Out beyond the further suburb near a chimney stack alone,
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| Lay the works of Rinder Brothers with a platform of their own,
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| And I waited there and suffered, waited there for many a day,
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| Slaved beneath the phantom signboard, telling all my hopes to stay.
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| Oh! |
| A man must feel revengeful for a boyhood such as mine,
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| God! |
| I hate the very houses near the workshop by the line;
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| And the smell of railway stations and the roar of running gear,
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| And the scornful-sneering signboards, saying «Second class wait here.»
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| There’s a train with Death for a driver, that is ever going past,
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| There will be no class compartments when it’s «All aboard» at last;
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| For the long white jasper platform with an Eden in the rear;
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| And there won’t be any signboards saying — «Second class wait here.»
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| Oh no, there won’t be any signboards saying «Second class, wait here.» |