| Out on the freight line there’s an old hobo camp
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| Where a drunk man lay sleepin' in a ragged old tram
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| And the lines on his face mark a life on the run
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| Is he somebody’s husband, somebody’s son?
|
| Well every week the newspaper tells a story of rage
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| Where the victims lay scattered across the front page
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| And there’s always some loner, on a spree with a gun
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| Is he somebody’s husband, somebody’s son?
|
| From the death rows of prison to the soup kitchen door
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| Each soul is an equal in the eyes of the Lord
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| Though hatred consumes them, once they were loved
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| They were somebody’s husband, somebody’s son
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| So out on your journey down the highways of life
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| Cherish your mother, crave the love of your wife
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| And forget not the outcast and the homeless were once
|
| Somebody’s husband, somebody’s son
|
| From the death rows of prison to the soup kitchen door
|
| Each soul is an equal in the eyes of the Lord.
|
| Though hatred consumes them, once they were loved
|
| They were somebody’s husband, somebody’s son
|
| They were somebody’s husband, somebody’s son
|
| They were somebody’s husband, somebody’s son |