Three men can drive a railroad spike
With nine blows of their hammers,

We're laying down track and heading west,
Affixing rails to ties -- crusty manners,

The gandy dancer's song rings out,
Every morning, it starts at sunup,

Building a line west of Omaha
Is better than waving a tin cup,

A coordinated team, we three have become --
Professional men -- we've succeeded

In impressing the straw boss, day after day,
We step in whenever needed,

We'll drive a golden spike someday,
If we make it to transcontinental linking,

Till then, we'll keep on pounding these steel
Rail fasteners without any thinking.

by D. Edgar Murray