The porter has a patent "slam,"

Which smites one like a blow,

And everywhere that porter comes

That "slam" is sure to go.

It strikes upon the tym-pa-num

Like shock of dynamite;

By day it nearly makes you dumb—

It deafens you at night.

When startled by the patent "slam"

The pious "pas-sen-jare,"

Says something else that ends in "am"

(Or he has patience rare).

Not only does it cause a shock,

But—Manchester remarks—

"Depreciates the rolling stock,"

Well, that is rather larks!

That's not the point. The porter's slam

Conduces to insanity,

And, though as mild as Mary's lamb,

Drives men to loud profanity.

If Manchester the "slam" can stay

By raising of a stir,

All railway-travellers will say,

"Bully for Man-ches-ter!"