At suburban railway stations you may see them as you 

pass,

There are signboards on the platform saying, "Wait here 

second class";

And to me the whirr and thunder and the clunk of 

running gear,

Seem to be forever saying, saying "Second class wait 

here"



Yes the second class were waiting in the days of serf 

and prince,

And the second class are waiting, they've been waiting 

ever since,

There are gardens in the background, and the line is 

bare and drear,

Yet they wait beneath a signboard, sneering "Second 

class wait here."



I have waited in the winter, in the mornings dark and 

damp,

When the asphalt platform glistened underneath that 

lonely lamp,

And the wind among the poplars and the wires that 

thread the air,

Seem to be forever snarling, snarling, "Second class 

wait here."



Out beyond the further suburb near a chimney stack 

alone,

Lay the works of Rinder Brothers with a platform of 

their own,

And I waited there and suffered, waited there for many 

a day,

Slaved beneath the phantom signboard, telling all my 

hopes to stay.



Oh! A man must feel revengeful for a boyhood such as 

mine,

God! I hate the very houses near the workshop by the 

line;

And the smell of railway stations and the roar of 

running gear,

And the scornful-sneering signboards, saying "Second 

class wait here."



There's a train with Death for a driver, that is ever 

going past,

There will be no class compartments when it's "All 

aboard" at last;

For the long white jasper platform with an Eden in the 

rear;

And there won't be any signboards saying - "Second 

class wait here."



Oh no, there won't be any signboards saying "Second 

class, wait here."