In the Big CoCo Mountain,
the tracks shine bright and new,
Where a feller hops a diesel train
and waves goodbye to you.
The sales-tax fountain never dries,
it rains on rich and poor alike,
And the hobo sings, “Just twelve more stops
and I’ll be in Denver by tonight!”

Oh the CoCo train is coming, boys,
it’s a hobo’s sweetest dream—
ten trips a day behind a freight train
and a new tax on everything .

It won’t go where you’re headed, friend,
just twelve little stations in a row.
Buses run twelve times a day for twenty million,
but the train costs three hundred mil, you know.

Fort Collins to Denver’s sixty-five by truckie,
but CoCo takes an hour and three-quarters if yer lucky—
Pueblo’s two hours in a Ford,
two-and-three-quarters on that rolling floor.

The low-down folks will pay the fare
so the high-tone crowd can ride in style,
While Waymo’s driverless taxis
already roam the Mile-High mile.

Four-point-seven billion dollars, boys,
could buy two extra lanes of I-25,
Double every bus, give every kid a laptop
and still have change to thrive.
But FasTracks promised the same old song
and overran by eighty percent—
Ridership barely budged, congestion grew,
but the tax just never went.

So let the first Fort Collins train
prove there’s riders waiting at the gate.
Don’t vote to feed the contractors
and BNSF’s lucky fate.
Keep the money in your pocket, friend,
don’t blow it on a hobo’s lie—
The Big CoCo Candy Mountain
is just a tax that never dies.