THERE’S a sign that always thrills me
When its pounding threat I hear,
One that always rudely thrills me
With the clutching grip of fear.
Though the thought of it be shocking,
And the homeward journey long,
When I hear the engine knocking
I am certain something’s wrong.
I have known a lot of people,
High and low, and near and far,
On the street, beneath the steeple,
Who were like a motor car.
Though successes may come flocking,
And though he be going strong,
When I hear a person knocking
I am certain something’s wrong.