The Agent Poem by John Stetson

Like the RI agent in Waterloo
Or ATSF in Timbuktoo
What you do with that power is up to you
If it's sweet for most and sour for few
Most likely the work you've got to do
Needs to be governed by the point of view
That the greatest good leaves the fewest few
In the cold and dark without a clue
Of how to join hands with the precious few
With their hands on the levers just because they knew

Someone who'd pay the fiddler with a great big 'Thanks'
For a tune they could carry all the way to the bank
For a tune they could marry to the clink and the clank
Of the the coin as it bounces down the Well of the Soul
Through the hole in your pocket as we cede control
Of the train as it heads down the parallel tracks
That converge to the point where you'll never get back
What might have seemed a trifle when you let it go
As it barrels past the mem'ry of 'Never Thought So'

It's a downbound train on a one-way track
And if you're climbin' aboard you will never come back
But you will recall the faces of the ones who said, 'Wait! '
In all the many places right before 'It's Too Late'
Which you think is one stop ahead of 'Where You Are'
As you see it disappearing from that very last car
Of the train that brought you here to 'Now You're Where You Are'
As you pass the last stop that was 'Just Too Far'