John Gibson: Never too late for a little trama

I must awake from my ongoing torpor to be aware, if not afraid, of this usurper. Give Alastair Mowat an inch and he’ll take a mile. This crafty old chum of mine will dare sully my smile. Behold, this marks the return of poet-and-you-don’t-know-it, Mowat. Back, the Grange ryhmer with his belated A Star is Born.

For unto us a tram is born,

Very early in the morn,

Its tip-toed to its steely track,

Raced along and then came

back.

I tell a tale of daring-do,

The story of the first of few,

Our tram has moved an inch or

so,

The fat controller’s all aglow.

The Press are gathered there of

course,

In the depot’s new concourse,

And the Wise Men came along,

How they ache to just belong.

In its shed the tram lay still,

Had rather liked its early thrill,

“Fit for purpose” all avow,

Hallelujah, take a bow.

Shepherds on a Pentland

strath,

Thought they’d glimpsed this

aftermath.

No less a streamlined streak of

light,

Shining up their darkling

night.

And our city all asleep,

Knows not of this fatal leap,

This huge step in the march of

time,

Lo, our tram and how sublime.

Now the chit-chat has to cease,

The rolling stock we can release,

Along a measured kilometre,

Behold our hundred-person

seater.

Enough, enough, the burghers

cry,

Now we’ve seen it, we can die.

Old men weep and young

hurrah,

Noting this spectacular.

I’ve advised Alastair to get off at the next stop.