You sit inside the wooden booth
The winter wind is cold and ruth
The yellow paint is curling slow
You watch the rusted engine go
You count the coins inside the tray
Another grey and heavy day
The ticket stub is torn and thin
The morning fog is rolling in
Wait for the bell to ring out loud
Wait for the ghost inside the crowd
Hold on to what the seasons bring
Until the rusted iron sings
You lean against the chipped white wall
You wait for one last distant call
The coffee in your thermos froze
The way the lonely river flows
Wait for the bell to ring out loud
Wait for the ghost inside the crowd
Hold on to what the seasons bring
Until the rusted iron sings
A copper penny on the floor
A heavy lock upon the door
The schedule says the train is late
You stand alone and learn to wait
The oil stains on the concrete ground
The only kind of truth you found
You wipe the glass with cotton thread
While all the city goes to bed
The depot roof is leaking rain
You feel the pull of every chain
But in the dark a light appears
To wash away the wasted years
Wait for the bell to ring out loud
Wait for the ghost inside the crowd
Hold on to what the seasons bring
Until the rusted iron sings
Just a few more cents.
The paint is peeling.
Wait for the bell.
