Vachel Lindsay Give the engines room, Give the engines room. Louder, faster The little band-master Whips up the fluting, Hurries up the tooting. He thinks that he stands, [*] The reins in his hands, In the fire-chiefs place In the night alarm chase. The cymbals whang, The kettledrums bang: — Clear the street, Clear the street, Clear the street — Boom, boom. In the evening gloom, In the evening gloom, Give the engines room, Give the engines room. Lest souls be trapped In a terrible tomb. The sparks and the pine-brands Whirl on high From the black and reeking alleys To the wide red sky. Hear the hot glass crashing, Hear the stone steps hissing. Coal black streams Down the gutters pour. There are cries for help From a far fifth floor. For a longer ladder Hear the fire-chief call. Listen to the music Of the firemens ball. Listen to the music Of the firemens ball. Tis the NIGHT Of doom, Say the ding-dong doom-bells. NIGHT Of doom, Say the ding-dong doom-bells. Clang—a—ranga— Clang—a—ranga— Clang, Clang, Clang, clang. Listen—to—the—music— Of the firemens ball— Listen—to—the—music— Of the firemens ball—
Posted on: Sat, 01 Feb 2014 10:52:09 +0000
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