This poem was inspired and prompted by my dear friend Vanessa Hashlocke.

Over in the West, in the backyard of Hell,

There’s a sound that the folks know well.

It’s the sound of a ghostly contraption,

Of hootin’ ‘n tootin’ and devilish action.

–

When the clouds go dark and the sky goes green,

You know that’s the sign of a bridge between

The land of Hell and Tornado Alley.

Boy, that’s the sound of the Devil’s rally.

–

You’ll hear some hollerin’ (Those’re the demons).

You’ll hear some prayin’ (That’s the deacon).

But most of all you’ll hear the moan

Of the wheels of the Wind Train, far from home.