Counting boxcars as they hurdle down the tracks , one for every memory I can summon , one for every penny I've placed at this crossing for good luck ..
A copper token to insure good fortune , the wheels of a child's imagination set into motion ..
Walking the railway , dreaming of life as a " Hobo " , with my cane over my shoulder and a bag of apples tied to one end ...
Racing home at Dusk with the last glimmer of daylight at my feet , the five thirty special thunders through this small town again ..
Bound for points South , Montgomery or Mobile , breaking the quiet of night marching through corn , soybean and cotton field ...
The deafening sound of order and morning routine in sleepy Southern villages , a wake -up call for little boys with skinned up knees , ball caps and ***** britches ...