John Gibson: Never too late for a little trama
For unto us a tram is born,
Very early in the morn,
Its tip-toed to its steely track,
Raced along and then came
back.
I tell a tale of daring-do,
The story of the first of few,
Our tram has moved an inch or
so,
The fat controller’s all aglow.
The Press are gathered there of
course,
In the depot’s new concourse,
And the Wise Men came along,
How they ache to just belong.
In its shed the tram lay still,
Had rather liked its early thrill,
“Fit for purpose” all avow,
Hallelujah, take a bow.
Shepherds on a Pentland
strath,
Thought they’d glimpsed this
aftermath.
No less a streamlined streak of
light,
Shining up their darkling
night.
And our city all asleep,
Knows not of this fatal leap,
This huge step in the march of
time,
Lo, our tram and how sublime.
Now the chit-chat has to cease,
The rolling stock we can release,
Along a measured kilometre,
Behold our hundred-person
seater.
Enough, enough, the burghers
cry,
Now we’ve seen it, we can die.
Old men weep and young
hurrah,
Noting this spectacular.
I’ve advised Alastair to get off at the next stop.