Black Fives
Puffing into Rugby,
But this loco’s not a pipe,
Then shunting on to Inverness,
With giant apples, ripe.
Roaring out of Derby
When the trees are like a leaf,
And crowds of faceless passengers
Become a leitmotif.
Rolling round St Rollox
As the crescent Moon comes out,
And steaming into Horwich
Where the clouds clump from the spout.
She’s cresting over Beattock,
And both here-and-not in turn.
Let’s open up the fire-box,
And watch the tubas burn.
Pulling upto Euston,
Where the bowler-hatted rain –
Then running-on to Templecombe,
An orangel-peel of train.
She’s right on time, in weathered-black,
But never bright cerise –
The workhorse of the LMS,
From Crewe to mantlepiece.
Rhyming Couplets 