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Two names, one rail, one nation's spine,
From Oostende coast to Arlon's pine,
The yellow-blue trains hum along,
Through Flemish field and Walloon song.

A schedule promised, sometimes kept,
While weary commuters yawn and slept,
"Vertraging" sighs the platform sign—
Ten minutes late, but mostly fine.

Brussels-Midi, a beating heart,
Where every journey finds its start,
The IC, the L, the P, the S,
A gentle tangle, more or less.

Through tunnels long and stations old,
Through summer heat and winter cold,
You bind the kingdom, track to track—
We grumble, yes, but we come back.