Hi Janet

I hope you are both well.

A search on Jeeves produced the following:

THE MAN FROM GOD KNOWS WHERE
Tom Russell

Come gather round me, children. A story I will tell.
I've been around since Jesus met the woman at the well.
I've walked these roads ten thousand years. I'm a ragtime millionaire.
I am the rake and the ramblin' saint, the man from God knows where.

Oh, they hung me in Downpatrick, up near St. Patrick's tomb,
But my ghost rose up in the peat-fire smoke toward the rising of the moon.
Now as I drift through your villages, all the maidens stop and stare.
There goes old Tom the vagabond, the man from God knows where.

So it's rise up, all you ancestors, and dance upon your graves.
I've come to hear your voices now, so maybe I'll be saved.
Cursed are we who forget the past, but pray and don't despair.
My song is might haunt your dreams tonight. I'm the man from God knows where.

I've slept beneath your bridges, near your oil refineries.
I've gambled on your riverboats: Shenandoah, Kankakee.
I'm the homeless lad. I'm the orphan child, leaves of grass sewn through my hair.
Yeah, me and old Walt Whitman, we're the men from God knows where.

I've rode the rods on steam trains with a banjo on my knee
While the ghost of Stephen Foster whispered lines to me
Of the storefront church and the chain-gang choir. Black sorrow filled the air.
Then Stephen died on a dross-house floor, like a man from God knows where.

I've heard the sound of Indian drums. I've heard the bugles blow
Before they rewrote history into a Wild West show.
My kin sailed toward America to steal their Indian ground.
They passed Bill Cody's ships, European bound.

So lock up all your daughters, your whiskey, and your gold.
I have come to claim my bounty, for the lies that I've been told;
And as I look out on this crowd tonight, I see most of you don't care.
Come lift your glass, reveal your past to the man from God knows where.