Classic Poem

“M. Lane. Brewster. New York.”
Deserves some local fame,
For having with malice a forethought
Deliberately carved his name
On the half-inch-wide
Thin strip at the side
Of a day-coach window frame.

On the New York Central and Hudson,
Car seventeen fifty-nine,
You may read, with your head turned sideways,
That soul-betraying sign,
Fourth right, my friend,
As you face the end
Where the twin inscriptions shine.

Idle and empty-headed,
Without book or paper or game,
He saw something smooth and shiny,
And scarred it with his name;
With a knife or a pin
He scratched it in
On the varnished window frame.