Never full; pack 'em in;
Move up, fat men, squeeze in, thin;
Trunks, valises, boxes, bundles,
Fill up gaps as on she tumbles.
Market baskets without number;
Owners easy nod in slumber;
Thirty seated, forty standing,
A dozen more on either landing.
Old man lifts his signal finger,
Car slacks up, but not a linger;
He's jerked aboard by sleeve or shoulder,
Shoved inside to sweat and moulder.
Toes are trod on, hats are smashed,
Dresses soiled, hoop skirts crashed,
Thieves are busy, bent on plunder;
Still we rattle on like thunder.
Packed together, unwashed bodies
Bathed in fumes of whiskey toddies;
Tobacco, garlic, cheese, and lager beer
Perfume the heated atmosphere;
Old boots, pipes, leather, and tan,
And, if in luck, a "soap-fat man;"
Ar'n't we jolly? What a blessing!
A horse-car hash, with such a dressing!