THE DYING HOBO
(learned from my father Frank Fitz in about 1943; also from Song Fest)
Beside a western watertank on a cold November day
His partner stood beside him, with a sadly drooping head,
Goodbye, old friend, I'm leaving for a land that's free and bright,
You never even have to work, not even wash your socks,
Oh, tell my gal in Denver, no more am I to roam,
I hear the fast mail coming, I'll catch it bye and bye,
The dying hobo's head fell back as he said his last refrain,
(from miriam berg's folksong collection)
In an old abandoned boxcar, a dying hobo lay.
Listening to the last words the dying hobo said.
Where handouts grow on bushes and you sleep out ev'ry night.
But listen to the whiskey come trickling down the rocks.
I hear the fast mail coming, I'm on my way back home.
Oh, gal o' mine, oh, gal o' mine, it ain't so hard to die.
His partner stole his shoes and socks and grabbed the eastbound train.