| Under bridges, beneath trestles in the boxcars of dead trains
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| Livin' to beat the cold of the pouring driving rain
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| A silent society moves out in the night
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| Ragged rebels, homeless hobos and those like me
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| Who’ve lost the light
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| St. Peter is a prophet to all the hobo world
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| An expert on everything From caviar to girls
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| I met him west of Memphis on the 8th of July
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| He handed me a can of beans and a rusty knife
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| And he said «everything out here ain’t what it seems
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| And when you’re down to nothing
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| Just go ahead and dream
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| Face the fact that you’re circle in a world full of squares
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| Trading sorrows for tomorrows, now that’s the hobo’s prayer»
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| Mother Mary is a lady from down in New Orleans
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| She’s seen a lot of living since she was 17
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| She said, «I'm bona fide and worldly wise, with original parts
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| 'cept for what set me to traveling, I’m talking about my heart»
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| She said, «I can spot a broken heart from 20 miles away
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| So are you passing through or have you come to stay
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| You’re running from a woman,» she said with a grin
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| «So what’ve you got to say» and I said
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| I am a pilgrim
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| Where everything out here ain’t what it seems
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| When I’m down to nothing, I just go ahead and dream
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| And face the fact that I’m a circle in a world full of squares
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| Trading sorrows for tomorrows, that’s the hobo’s prayer
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| Trading sorrows for tomorrows, that’s the hobo’s prayer |