It
doesn’t matter who we are,
Nor matter where we work,
We
are supposed, in office hours,
To have no thoughts of shirk.
But
when the fire engine toots,
And hammers down the street,
There
always falls upon the ear
The sound of moving feet,
Each
office up and down the line
Is in a sudden spill;
And
pretty faces everywhere
The office windows fill.
For
O, it so exciting is,
And such a daily treat,
To
see the engine cough its sparks
And rattle down the street.
And
if there comes a rainy day,
When fire alarms are few,
We
just sit round and mope the while,
And don’t know what to do.
We
almost wish there’d be a fire
On some far distant street,
So
we could see the engine go
And have our daily treat.
April
27, ‘09
 |
1910 Knox fire truck
|
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