Spoken: He was just a railroad bum, put out in the cold
Riding on an East-bound freight train, speeding through the night Hobo Bill, a railroad bum, was fighting for his life The sadness of his eyes revealed the torture of his soul He rose a weak and weary hand to brush away the cold
No warm lights flickered 'round him, no blankets there to hold Nothing but the howling wind and the driving rain so cold When he heard a whistle blowing in a dreamy kind of way The hobo seemed contented, for he smiled there where he lay
Outside the rain was falling on that lonely boxcar door But the little form of Hobo Bill lay still upon the floor While the train sped through the darkness and the raging storm outside No one knew that Hobo Bill was taking his last ride
It was early in the morning when they raised the hobo's head The smile still lingered on his face, but Hobo Bill was dead There was no mother's longing to soothe his weary soul For he was just a railroad bum who died out in the coldTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
