A HYMN TO THE G

It’s the runt of the litter gets most of the love
And the one that a parent’s the proudest of
For the strongest and brightest and best-looking too
Will get by on their own whatsoever they do.
This is true of all species in the animal chain
And applies as well to the underground train.
Consider the G line, the tiniest of all,
Only four cars in
length, which is not very tall,
While its brothers and sisters stretch to eight or ten.
So they tower above it like a jungle hen.
And being so small, the G can’t go  far
Never reaching Manhattan, the glamorous star.
Watch it rattle between Forest Hills and Smith-Ninth,
Huffing most of the way on its limited strignth.
Anybody who knows how to read any map’ll
Realize that poor  G never sees the Big Apple.
Woodhaven is fine and so is old Greenpoint
But to limit the G is to make one big mean point.
And its undersized wheels, just like those of a tot
Mean that straphangers wait around quite a lot
For its speed is reduced almost all of the way,
An occurrence not found on the 1 or the A.
But it tries–how it tries–with all of its means
To move people from Brooklyn who’re going to Queens.
You can count on this train, it is wholly predictable–
To be late, to break down and to seem oh-convictable.
Yet the heart has its reasons for loving some things
Whether people or places or teething rings.
If one underdog merits our charity,
It’s the subway that couldn’t–the little G.