Classic Poem

The Porter Speaks

A quarter of an hour to wait,
And quite sufficient too,
Since your remarks on Bishopsgate
Impress the mind as true,
Unless you work here soon and late,
Till 'tis like home to you.

You see, a chap stands what he must,
He'll hang on anywhere;
He'll learn to live on smoke and dust,
Though 'tisn't healthy fare.
We're used to breathing grime in, just
Like you to breathing air.

And yet 'tis odd to think these trains,
In half an hour, maybe,
Will be right out among green lanes,
Where the air is pure and free.
Well, sir, there's Bishopsgate remains
For us, and here are we!

Your train. First class, sir. That's your style!
In future, I'll be bound,
You'll stick to hansoms, since you'd spile
Here in the Underground.
I've got to wait a little while
Before my train comes round.