Twas the night before track weekend when all through the house,
Not a volunteer was stirring not even a mouse.
Many are coming, from far and near,
To work with the one and only, Big Joe Tampiere.
Big Joe sat quiet, arms at the ready,
To the Top of the Mountain, tomorrow, slow and steady.
Though Joe sleeps by day, next to railcars in sight,
Rumor has it, he patrols the main line at night.
With moon up and full, he glides up the grade,
Past Maine Locomotive and Machine Co by the sawmill in the shade
He slips silently through the woods, his compressor quiet.
Looking for his cup holder or someone to buy it.
The night goes on, the moon now aglow,
But daylight is not far off, so its time to go.
Back down grade, back to the barn,
Back to sleep, without any alarm.
Never will there be a witness for him to appear,
For this is the ghost of Big Joe Tampiere.
