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