It isn’t the whistle that pulls the train;
Nor the boom of the gun that kills,
It isn’t the thunder that waters the grain;
Nor the smack of the kiss that thrills,
It isn’t the cackle that lays the egg
Nor the grunt  that makes the pork;
It isn’t the flavor
In an empty keg;
Nor the pop of a champagne cork;
It isn’t the work that we shirk or stiff
Nor loafing that pulls us through;
Our own success, we must confess;
Depends of what we do.

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