Classic Poem

Some sing of heroes whose deeds have rocked the earth,
Giants of an elder day, men of brawn and girth;
But I sing a hero, valiant more than any older one,
A better one, a braver one, a finer and a bolder one—
The last man in the morning to leave his Pullman berth.

Past pleasant fields of waving grain, through lanes of ripened corn,
Past peaceful orchards burnished with the light of early morn,
Bathed in the golden sunlight and the radiance of day,
The mighty engine rumbles on its way.
An old lady sitting
Complacently knitting,
A flapper buried deeply in the latest magazine,
An infant squealing
At his sister peeling
The skin from a banana, from a yellow, ripe banana,
Adds a touch of animation to the scene.
The ebon-skinned porter
In spotless jacket
Scents an extra quarter
As he lifts a shoe to black it,
As he puts it on his bracket and he hums a chanson gay,
While the mighty engine rumbles on its way.
Then, beneath the last remaining drapery of green
A strangely odd protuberance is gradually seen.
It undulates and bulges in a most amazing style
To the evident amusement of the flapper 'cross the aisle.
It undulates and bulges as the Pullman sways and rocks.
Then from out the verdant curtain peeps a modest pair of socks.
From beneath the swaying curtain,
Shyly, diffident, uncertain,
Peeps a coy and unobtrusive pair of socks—
Purple hosiery embroidered o'er with clocks.
Then with lithe and agile motion drops our hero to the floor,
Snatching up a pair of shoes that he had left the night before,
And though far from being craven,
On his countenance unshaven
Deep embarrassment is graven as he plunges toward the door.
For his shirt tails flutter gayly,
And disheveled is his hair,
And he lacks those things that daily
Most men usually wear.
In his hand he grasps a collar,
And a toothbrush and a comb,
And it's safe to bet a dollar
That he wishes he were home,
As he dashes, swaying, reeling
Past the infant loudly squealing,
And the little maiden, peeling;
Past the kind old lady sitting
There industriously knitting,
While the silly little flapper shakes with mirth
At the last man rising from his Pullman berth.