My Trolley hikes to Harlem p.d.q.,
And picks up pikers all along the beat.
At six o'clock the aisles are full of feet,
The straps with fingers, and the entire zoo
Boils on the platform with a mad huroo
Reckless as Bronx mosquitoes after meat.
The widow stands, the fat man gets the seat
And Satan smiles like Foxy M. Depew.

And as we hikes along I thinks, thinks I,
"The human race is like the ocean foam,
Roaring and discontented, peevish, fly—"
Say, why in blazes don't they stay to home?
This travel-sickness is a danger which
Keeps hoboes poor and corporations rich.