Second Class, Wait Here

At suburban railway stations you may see them as you pass,
There are signboards on the platform saying, «Wait here second class»;
And to me the whirr and thunder and the clunk of running gear,
Seem to be forever saying, saying «Second class wait here»
Yes the second class were waiting in the days of serf and prince,
And the second class are waiting, they’ve been waiting ever since,
There are gardens in the background, and the line is bare and drear,
Yet they wait beneath a signboard, sneering «Second class wait here.»
I have waited in the winter, in the mornings dark and damp,
When the asphalt platform glistened underneath that lonely lamp,
And the wind among the poplars and the wires that thread the air,
Seem to be forever snarling, snarling, «Second class wait here.»
Out beyond the further suburb near a chimney stack alone,
Lay the works of Rinder Brothers with a platform of their own,
And I waited there and suffered, waited there for many a day,
Slaved beneath the phantom signboard, telling all my hopes to stay.
Oh! A man must feel revengeful for a boyhood such as mine,
God! I hate the very houses near the workshop by the line;
And the smell of railway stations and the roar of running gear,
And the scornful-sneering signboards, saying «Second class wait here.»
There’s a train with Death for a driver, that is ever going past,
There will be no class compartments when it’s «All aboard» at last;
For the long white jasper platform with an Eden in the rear;
And there won’t be any signboards saying — «Second class wait here.»
Oh no, there won’t be any signboards saying «Second class, wait here.»