Beside a western water tank, One cold November day, Sheltered by a boxcar, The dying hobo lay. His partner sat beside him and slowly stroked his head, While he listened to the last words the dying hobo said, I'm going to a better land where everything is bright; Where hand outs grow on bushes And you can sleep out every night. Where a feller never has to work or even change his socks, And little drops of whiskey come trickling down the rocks. Just tell my gal in Denver,her face no more I'll view, For,I'm gonna hop a fast freight and ride her right straight through. His eyes grew dim, his head fell back, He'd sung his last refrain. His partner hooked his coat and pants and took the eastbound train.
Reason for writing:
Late Father who passed away in 1988.
Birth sign: Scorpio
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