| Joe Hill come over from Sweden shores
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| Looking for some work to do
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| And the Statue of Liberty waved him by
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| As Joe come a sailing through, Joe Hill
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| As Joe come a sailing through
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| Oh his clothes were coarse and his hopes were high
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| As he headed for the promised land
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| And it took a few weeks on the out-of-work streets
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| Before he began to understand
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| Before he began to understand
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| And Joe got hired by a bowery bar
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| Sweeping up the saloon
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| As his rag would sail over the baroom rail
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| Sounded like he whistled on a tune
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| You could almost hear him whistling on a tune
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| And Joe rolled on from job to job
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| From the docks to the railroad line
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| And no matter how hungry the hand that wrote
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| In his letters he was always doing fine
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| In his letters he was always doing fine
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| Oh, the years went by like the sun goin' down
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| Slowly turn the page
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| And when Joe looked back at the sweat upon his tracks
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| He had nothing to show but his age
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| He had nothing to show but his age
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| So he headed out for the California shore
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| There things were just as bad
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| So he joined the Industrial Workers of the World
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| 'Cause, the union was the only friend he had
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| 'Cause, the union was the only friend he had
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| Now the strikes were bloody and the strikes were black
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| As hard as they were long
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| In the dark of night Joe would stay awake and write
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| In the morning he would raise them with a song
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| In the morning he would raise them with a song
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| And he wrote his words to the tunes of the day
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| To be passed along the union vine
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| And the strikes were led and the songs were spread
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| And Joe Hill was always on the line
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| Yes, Joe Hill was always on the line
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| Now in Salt Lake City a murder was made
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| There was hardly a clue to find
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| Oh, the proof was poor, but the sheriff was sure
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| Joe was the killer of the crime
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| That Joe was the killer of the crime
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| Joe raised his hands but they shot him down
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| He had nothing but guilt to give
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| It’s a doctor I need and they left him to bleed
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| He made it 'cause he had the will to live
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| Yes, he made it 'cause he had the will to live
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| Then the trial was held in a building of wood
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| And there the killer would be named
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| And the days weighed more than the cold copper ore
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| 'Cause he feared that he was being framed
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| 'Cause he found out that he was being framed
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| Oh, strange are the ways of western law
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| Strange are the ways of fate
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| For the government crawled to the mine owner’s call
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| That the judge was appointed by the state
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| Yes, the judge was appointed by the state
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| Oh, Utah justice can be had
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| But not for a union man
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| And Joe was warned by summer early morn
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| That there’d be one less singer in the land
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| There’d be one less singer in the land
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| Now William Spry was Governor Spry
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| And a life was his to hold
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| On the last appeal, fell a governor’s tear
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| May the lord have mercy on your soul
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| May the lord have mercy on your soul
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| Even President Wilson held up the day
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| But even he would fail
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| For nobody heard the soul searching words
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| Of the soul in the Salt Lake City jail
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| Of the soul in the Salt Lake City jail
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| For 36 years he lived out his days
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| And he more than played his part
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| For his songs that he made, he was carefully paid
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| With a rifle bullet buried in his heart
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| With a rifle bullet buried in his heart
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| Yes, they lined Joe Hill up against the wall
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| Blindfold over his eyes
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| It’s the life of a rebel that he chose to live
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| It’s the death of a rebel that he died
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| It’s the death of a rebel that he died
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| Now some say Joe was guilty as charged
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| And some say he wasn’t even there
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| And I guess nobody will ever know
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| 'Cause the court records all disappeared
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| 'Cause the court records all disappeared
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| Say wherever you go in this fair land
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| In every union hall
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| In the dusty dark these words are marked
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| In between all the cracks upon the wall
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| In between all the cracks upon the wall
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| It’s the very last line that Joe Will wrote
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| When he knew that his days were through
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| «Boys, this is my last and final will
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| Good luck to all of you
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| Good luck to all of you» |