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She is a 4-8-4 steam locomotive
on static display in Toronto,
near the Ex



time was when my wheels were polished
by mile upon mile of steel rail;
when before my pilot lay the entire
Dominion, mare ad mare, sea to sea;
when with a fire in my belly and a head
of superheated steam at the throttle i
pounded the main, Halifax to Vancouver

time was when in smoke and thunder
I raced across the wide, rolling prairies
hauling fancy varnish or fast freight;
when people told time by my passing;
when the long lonesome sound of my voice
inspired school boys or broke a maidens heart.

But now cold and lonesome i lie in this park.
Cold. No steam, nor smoke, nor fire, now,
warmed only by the blessed, benevolent sun--
my track ends a foot beyond my couplers
lest the useless relic that I’ve become
get a run at it and break this prison...