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electric booga

Street-Car Salad

Never full! pack ‘em in!

Move up, fat man, squeeze in, thin.

Trunks, Valises, Boxes, Bundles,

Fill up gaps as on she tumbles.

Market baskets without number, 

Owners easy—nod in slumber.

Thirty seated, forty standing,

A dozen more on either landing.

Old man lifts the signal finger,

Car slacks up—but not a linger—

He’s jerked aboard by sleeve or shoulder,

Shoved inside to sweat and moulder.

Toes are trod on, hats are smashed, 

Dresses soiled—hoop-skirts crashed.

Thieves are busy, bent on plunder,

Still we rattle on like thunder.

Packed together, unwashed bodies,

Bathed in fumes of whisky toddies;

Tobacco, garlic, cheese, and beer

Perfume the heated atmosphere.

Old boots, pipes, leather and tan,

And if in luck, a “Soap-Fat man.”

Aren’t this jolly? What a blessing!

A Street-Car Salad, with such a dressing.

–Anonymous, 1867