Seven Thirty Two

A poem by Johns 1928

There are trains on every roster,
That are tough & hard to do,
Some are packed right to the scuppers,
You just push and tumble thro'
But the daddy of the "heavies"
Packed in tight the whole way thro,
And we dread the daily "strafing"
Of the "Seven Thirty Two".

We are steaming out of Strathfield,
Up the bank we're moving slow,
And a tearful little flapper
Sobs out "Please get off my toe"
And bewhiskered ancient smokers,
Roar, grunt & snarl at you,
As you crush their corns & "Stetsons"
On the "Seven Thirty Two".

Steady now the track is dumpy,
You just lurch & fall around,
You crush a foot beneath you,
Oh! my ticket can't be found,
That's one & twopence ha'penny,
Oh! how horrid season too!
And you grimly write excess fairs,
On the "Seven Thirty Two".

They are packed on every platform,
How they groan as you pass by,
Hold your breath my new silk stockings!
And a lady starts to cry
Then you murmur, Oh! so sorry,
Once again start shoving thro'
The fat ones sigh, as you go by
On the "Seven Thirty Two".

Now we're rushing on thro' Newtown
Getting breathing space again,
And you seem a bit more steady
You are nearly thro' the train,
When you reach the last car platform
What a relief it is to you,
For the passengers are angry,
On the "Seven Thirty Two".

There may be trains more crowded,

Full of flappers, dressed so neat,

But its not so nice to hear 'em,

When you stand upon their feet.

Let's hope I get no stouter,

For fat men would never do,

To collect & see the tickets,

On the "Seven Thirty Two".

Notes

From Railroad 10 January 1929, p.11 - signed JOHNS 28