There's something special about a named train,
the Mallard, the Royal Scot,
more romantic than a mere number.
Ours was the Red Rose, pride of LMS.

The London-Liverpool express
flahing North, four-thirty on the dot,
a sight not to be missed, exciting
street players of jacks and hopscotch.

She thundered through the blue brick tunnel,
erupted into the grass-lined cutting,
swallowed our footbridge in smog and sulphur.
The we loyal fans ran home to eat our spam.