THE DYING HOBO (Mr E.C. Smith, Weston, Lewis County, 1915)

(I was going to muck about with this, but the original is too good!)

Behind a western water tank, a dying hobo lay
Inside an empty box car, one cold November day
His comrade sat beside him, with a low and drooping head
Listening to the final words, this dying hobo said.

I am going to a better land, where everything is bright
Where handouts grow on bushes, and you can sleep out every night
Tell my sweetheart back in Denver, no more her face I'll view
For I have caught the fast train, and now I'm going through

Tell her not to weep for me, no tears in her eyes must lurk
For I have gone to a distant land, where men don't have to work
Don't have to work at all my friend, not even change their socks
Where little streams of alcohol, come tingling down the rocks

Hark! I hear the whistling, I must catch her on the fly
Just one more drink of the nine five booze,It's not so hard to die
His voice grew weak, His head fell back, He's sung his last refrain
His partner swiped his coat and hat, and caught the eastbound train!