Here ya' go:
^^^
GEORGIE ON THE IRT
(Lawrence Block / Trad.)

Along came the IRT, a-cannon-ballin' through
From 242nd Street to Flatbush Avenue.
At 5:15 one Friday Eve, she pulled into Times Square.
The people all filled the station, and Georgie he was there.

The people all filled the station. they milled and massed around,
And Georgie looked upon that train and it was Brooklyn bound.
He vowed at once that train to board, the weekend not to roam,
For Georgie was a shipping clerk and Brooklyn was his home.

The people filled the station, a million head or more.
George used his elbows & his knees 'til he reached the door.
But when he reached those portals, he could not take the gaff.
The conductor shut the door on him and cut poor George in half.

The train pulled out of Times Square, the swiftest on the line.
It carried poor George's head along, but it left his body behind.
Poor Georgie died a hero's death, a martyr plain to see,
And the very last words poor Georgie said were "Screw the IRT."

Now when you ride the IRT and you approach Times Square,
Incline your head a few degrees and say a silent prayer,
For his body it lies between the ties amidst the dust & dew,
And his head it rides the IRT to Flatbush Avenue.