Eighty Four Miles
Eighty four miles, a clickety clack,
eighty four miles to the end of the track.
Why did it stop at every siding?
There was nobody boarding the train.
See, we're only at Matakana
and the darned thing's stopped again.
Will they stop at Merryula?
This trip is just a joke.
If I was up in that engine
a would give it a mighty stoke!
Eighty four miles, a clickety clack,
eighty four miles to the end of the track.
The middle of boiling hot summer
here, in the dry out-back.
Days have been so scorching
that the metal expands in the track.
Next stop is Canbelligo,
the driver gives a cheer;
he and the old conductor
are off to the pub for a beer.
Eighty four miles, a clickety clack,
eighty four miles to the end of the track.
They left us here in a heat wave,
the water supply long gone.
A full hour later they toddle back
...this behaviour's just not on!
Only fifteen miles to Hermidale
where the same thing happens again.
Back in the fifties if you needed to move,
you would never take the train.
Eighty four miles, a clickety clack,
eighty four miles to the end of the track.
Eighty four miles and it took us
six hours and twelve minutes more.
By the time we reached the end of the line
I'd missed the funeral, for sure!
Eighty four miles, a clickety clack,
eighty four miles to the end of the track.
By cherryk
© 2012 cherryk
(All rights reserved)
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