The child is on the lane playing with a train, a smaller version of the one we used to blame for the noise on the street when the curb we used to hit, the street we have now quit.

But back on the facts as we lay in 42, deep inside the station, the kid's playing too.

A sudden burden strikes: one, two, one, two; for a split second, the speaker blew.

A small point on the horizon appears, and it's a man; whispers another, "Fear."

But we all know what is coming on the lane.

Here comes a train.

Here comes a train on the wrong lane.

A train on the wrong lane.

Here comes a train on the wrong lane.

The train on, the train on.

We watch it come closer and closer, up to the point where I can touch it with my finger.

The crowd is wild, hectic is the panic; can anybody on the platform represent it?

They yell as the yellow coach approaches; is the trainer a whore or is it a coach?

Some cry, some pray, some cry, some stay.

To disguise the disgust, some fake a play.

The burden grows, submerging every ear; heavier the cries, louder are the tears.

Relief, as they know the lane.

But where are we at? Here comes the train.

Here comes a train on the wrong lane.

A train on the wrong lane.

Here comes a train on the wrong lane.

The train on, the train on.

Relief, as they know the lane.

Relief, as they know the lane.

Here comes the train.