BRIDGE:

(Keep them big wheels turning!
Keep that fire burnin'!
Shovel and stoke,
No time fer jokes,
Mom's really too discerning.
She'sknows BS when it spins like gold
Or drops flat dead on the line
An's counting on you to bring her through,
'Cross the pass at twenty, nine.
Over the top at twenty, nine.)


Now twenty, eight, and eighty-two!
Hearken, the muffled bell!
As the engine strains and the frozen train
Climbs on, through a snow-cold hell!
They're calling on the passengers
To help relieve the stoker
To shovel in yet one more head
And stir the flames with a poker.
The grade runs steep, the night is deep,
The air is dark and freezing,
And a stone cold ghost lingers with each post,
And the boiler's weak, and wheezing.
The track is white with fallen snow,
And snow-gales make them blind.
But still she climbs, and coughs, and strains,
Climbing on towards twenty, nine.