The Dying Hobo
’Twas dawn by a western water tank,
One cold November day;
There in an open boxcar,
A dying hobo lay.
His partner stood beside him,
With a sadly drooping head,
Listening to the last words
That the dying hobo said.
Good-by old pal, I’m going
To a land where all is bright,
Where handouts grow in the bushes,
And you can sleep out every night.
The dying hobo’s head dropped back,
And as he sang his last refrain,
His partner stole his shoes and socks
And grabbed an eastbound train.
* * *
Said a giddy old maid named Biddy McHugh,
I’d like to be good and I’d like to be true,
For it’s good to be good,
But I’m not made of wood,
Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, no wonder I’m blue.
* * *