I'm nuts about the whistle-blowing trains
In little stations, nights when it snows
Women smiling behind tulle curtains
I cling and pull myself up on the windows

I write a poem then sing a song
I sit there then and weep
Then do I blossom splendidly
Playing the harmonica in the street

Every night it rains in this city
And newly each night I'm dead and gone
Don't hide it, the train goes there
Say what you will, I'm getting on