Begun under the bed of the poorest shanty

    It ran through the mattress and suffered the chinches

    And it ran through the veins of the farmer and his wife

    It came fraying the laces of his brogans

    Like the plow of a furrow's sweep

    Turning the land and busting the clod-chunks

    But the Grin was too broad

    It was too thin

    And the throngs pushed and stomped to get a glance

    Before it disappeared and climbed aboard dawn's rose