Atalanta
Rode here a man of some repute,
Banker and empire builder bold,
Who’d even tried to corner gold,
To lay him out a railroad route.
He addressed our town; here I quote:
“The westward way lies through your town.
It will bring commerce and renown.”
The people closed his way by vote.
They blocked his path; provoked his wrath:
“I will see grass cover this town!”
He rode off with ferocious frown
To route his rails another path.
The rail lines were laid south of here
At the wish of this financier.
The town near died, to his delight,
But folks held on out of sheer spite.
After he found his last reward
Someone cleared out his railroad yard.
There his personal Pullman lay,
Atalanta, in disarray.
Found, refurbished, and auctioned off
For a small sum at which he’d scoff,
The coach now sits where all may see
In the heart of our loved city.
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