Dríver drive fáster and máke a good rún
Down the Spríngfield Line únder the shíning sún.
Flý like an aéroplane, dón’t pull up shórt
Till you bráke for Grand Céntral Státion, New Yórk.
For thére in the míddle of thát waiting-háll
Should be stánding the óne that Í love best of áll.
If he’s nót there to méet me when Í get to tówn,
I’ll stánd on the side-walk with téars rolling dówn.
For hé is the óne that I lóve to look ón,
The ácme of kindness and pérfectión.
He présses my hánd and he sáys he loves mé,
Which I fínd an admiráble pecúliaritý.
The wóods are bright gréen on both sídes of the líne;
The trées have their lóves though they’re different from míne.
But the póor old fat bánker in the sún-parlour cár
Has nó one to lóve him excépt his cigar.
If Í were the Héad of the Chúrch or the Státe,
I’d pówder my nóse and just téll them to wáit.
For lóve’s more impórtant and pówerful thán
Ever a príest or a póliticián.