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(learned from my father Frank Fitz in about 1943; also from Song Fest)

(music to go here)

Beside a western watertank on a cold November day
In an old abandoned boxcar, a dying hobo lay.

His partner stood beside him, with a sadly drooping head,
Listening to the last words the dying hobo said.

Goodbye, old friend, I'm leaving for a land that's free and bright,
Where handouts grow on bushes and you sleep out ev'ry night.

You never even have to work, not even wash your socks,
But listen to the whiskey come trickling down the rocks.

Oh, tell my gal in Denver, no more am I to roam,
I hear the fast mail coming, I'm on my way back home.

I hear the fast mail coming, I'll catch it bye and bye,
Oh, gal o' mine, oh, gal o' mine, it ain't so hard to die.

The dying hobo's head fell back as he said his last refrain,
His partner stole his shoes and socks and grabbed the eastbound train.

(from miriam berg's folksong collection)