let me tell you about a man i know who lives down on the rails let me tell you about a way of life when the city ends and the road begins when it wasnt so hard to just make your way before taxman comes and take all your pay then one day you just get sick of it all and walk down the tracks and drift away it s a nice sunday morning see an old man yawning it s the hobo woke up underneath the grocery stores awning grumpy and he shares his gin with his neighbour this city s gone all shitty it s lost its gritty flavor now it s full of idiots who don t know nothing about nothing kids these days and their week ways he s sitting on stoops and spitting out truths his old ways worked going old school always plus it didnt hurt the lord lurked in his hallways used to hear him shouting to god hed call all day claiming he was aimless but knowing he was lying searching for salvation but not exactly trying his face is old and his teeth are gone his pace is slow but he shuffles on he mumbles in tongues and speaks with a slur and i swear if you see him you address him yes sir the real deal hobo he ain t settling or stopping been going strong for so long and yet still aint dropping people talk and stare as they walk by and glare but they knew they couldn t do what he did could do they wouldn t dare and he got no car and he doesnt get emails he smells like an ogre and repels most females cursing out customers outside the store scaring the children while working the door and noone calls on his birthday to wish him well sometimes the lonely gets him he misses someone who listens well he hasn t had a friend in who knows how long and it seems like he s always singing the same damn song day old donuts and cans of beans dumpster chicken and river greens hopping on trains with lysol for wine it s just another drink to the end of the line raindrops drips across his roof and seeps in through the cardboard and concrete block he sleeps in it wreaks havoc with each storm the attic creaks more collect some bottles on the floor his home was his castle his domain his home and his pain grew so great it wouldn t leave him alone on his own all his life he s been cast away so he walks down the tracks and drifts away as he lay in the shade by the tracks where he stayed in the shacks that were made by these quacks who obeyed no code the open road would give him guidance theyd focus through blindness flash potion flask under overcoat liners emotions run high getting chased from the stations when all you really need is patience night watch not on they must ve caught the dose or quota the coast was clear he steers the tracks like a hobos suppose ta and a man like this is more than just a name on freights he s lived his life in crates and spent late nights in fields and forced great laughs despite always having to run real hobos don t slow down or pass on a hoedown some hobos go crazy get a little liquor in em get to thinking theyve been victim too long to shake the feeling get down how down hit the road then the soda had a bud in minnesota hop a freight to dakota he loved the motion of locomote running coast to coast into the ocean cresting over rolling hills and bustling towns and empty mills it s the dribble and crumb the north american bum what you use to stir coffee with spoon or a thumb it s the dribbles and crumbs the north american bum what you use to stir coffee with spoon or a thumb hey where you going why the hurry what s wrong you gotta go so soon is the pull that strong well then i guess it s best that i say my goodbyes and may you one day find peace under these open skies maybe one day hell forget the pain pack it all in and catch the westbound train but for now hes just hanging for who knows how long just riding the rails singing the same damn song day old donuts and cans of beans dumpster chicken and river greens hopping trains with lysol for wine just another drink to the end of the line day old donuts and cans of beans dumpster chicken and river greens hopping trains with lysol for wine just another drink to the end of the line