| Come gather round me children, a story I will tell
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| I’ve been around since Jesus met the woman at the well
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| I’ve walks these roads ten thousand years, I’m a ragtime millionaire
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| I am the rake and the ramblin' saint, the man from god knows where
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| Oh, they hung me in Downpatrick, up near St. Patrick's tomb
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| But my ghost rose up in the peat fire smoke toward the rising of the moon
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| Now as I drift through your villages, all the maidens stop and stare
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| There goes old Tom the vagabond, the man from god knows where
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| So its rise up all you ancestors, and dance upon your graves
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| I’ve come to hear your voices now so maybe I’ll be saved
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| Cursed are we who forget the past, but pray and don’t despair
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| My song is might haunt your dreams tonight, I’m the man from god knows where
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| I’ve slept beneath your bridges near your oil refineries
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| I’ve gambled on your river boats, Shenandoha; |
| Kanakee
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| I’m the homeless lad, I’m the orphan child, leaves of grass sewn through my hair
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| Yeah, me and old Walt Whitman, we’re the men from god knows where
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| I’ve rode the rods on steam trains with a banjo on my knee
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| While the ghost of Stepan Foster whispered lines to me
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| Of the storefront curch and the chain gang choir; |
| Black sorrow filled the air
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| Then Stephen died on a dross house floor, like a man from god knows where
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| I’ve heard the sound of Indian drums, I’ve heard the bugles blow
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| Before they re-wrote history, into a Wild West show
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| My kin sailed toward America to steal their Indian ground
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| They passed bill Cody’s ships, European bound
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| So lock up all your daughters, your whiskey and your gold
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| I have come to claim my bounty, for the lies that I’ve been told
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| And as I look out on this crowd tonight, I see most of you don’t care
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| Come lift your glass, reveal your past, to the man from god knows where |