| Just a mile west of the water tank
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| On a cold November day
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| In a cold and lonesome box car
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| A dyin hobo lay
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| His pal sat there before him
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| With a low and drooping head
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| Listening to the last words
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| His dying buddy said
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| Goodbye old pardner hobo
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| I hate to say goodbye
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| But I hear my train a comin
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| And I know shes getting nigh
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| Gonna tell that old conductor
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| Just when I’m gonna stop
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| Where the little stream of water
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| Comes tumblin down the rock
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| We rode the rocks together
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| We rambled all around
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| In every kind of weather
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| We slept out on the ground
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| Oh pardner don’t you miss that train
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| That always makes a stop
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| Where the little stream of water
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| Comes tumblin down the rock
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| Would you tell my girl from Danville
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| That she need not worry a tall
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| I’m a goin to that country
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| Where I won’t have to work at all
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| No I wll not have to work there
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| Or never change my socks
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| Where the little stream of water
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| Comes tumblin down the rocks
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| I’m a goin to that better place
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| Where everything is right
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| Where handouts grow on bushes
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| And they sleep out every night
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| I won’t have to wash my overhauls
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| Or never change my socks
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| Where the little stream of water
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| Comes tumblin down the rocks |