Sitting in a Southbound train Unpleasant peasants here contained A narrow, can-like, dull domain
Stuck inside this stagnant crust On metal wheels and under-rust Feels more like pain than wander-lust
Sitting still because of freight To see its fate we wait and wait The youngest stir, their voices grate
There has to be a better mode To cross the land to one’s abode Since progress from when horses rode
Indeed there is a smaller box Much smoother too, sans bed of rocks To it the wiser masses flock
This newer mode more civilized More flexible and free it rides The height of speed industrialized
Often now is criticized “We must ignore the soul to rise Above the individual lies”
“The greater good we all comprise” Or so they do idealize I’m stuck here as I realize
The greatest mode of transport be The one that makes a person free And that one still a car for me
“So blow the smoke and smog”, they say, “And hasten now our judgement day Unless we find a better way”
Unless that way will give me wings I won’t let go my joyous flings I do not fear these doomsday things
I’ll drive my car free and fast Knowing that the fad won’t last It’ll be your train, not me that’s passed So joyfully I’ll push the gas
You needn’t worry that I do It’s me who pays instead of you Unlike your train that’s funded through
Money taken from the rest And given to the pompous blessed So they can do what they deem best
I’ll keep mine, thank you, if you please It makes us all feel more at ease So keep your hands away, you sleaze
I’ll drive into my own sunset Excited for new forms unmet Or maybe my own private jet
There’s something wonderful and free Left uncontrolled by transport “We” When making plans for me is me


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I love trains. At first I thought the Ayn Randian themes were humorous, but by the end I am not sure. It actually seems to seriously exult the cult of the self and an elitist look at life. I am wondering if the poet is trying to be ironic?
Money taken from the rest/ And given to the pompous blessed/ So they can do what they deem best
Quite a political line, I am wondering if the spirit of this stanza works with the spirit of a poet who considers the fellow riders as "Unpleasant peasants here contained". If the world is full of unpleasant peasants and the pompous blessed, who is left- the poet?

*I read some of your other posts. I guess you were not being ironically Ayn Randian. Interesting take, I think!
   3yr ago