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The Dying Hobo

T’was in a western watering hole,
On a cold December day.
That in an open box car,
A dying Hobo lay.
His partner sat beside him,
With low and bended head.
Listening closely to the last words,
The dying Hobo said.

“I’m going to a better land,
Where everything is bright.
Where handouts grow on bushes,
And you sleep out over night.
Where you do not have to work at all,
Or even change your socks.
And little streams of Whiskey,
Come trickling through the rocks.
You can tell my gal in Reno,
My face she’ll never view.
'Cause I’m going to catch that last train,
That will surely pull me through.
And when I reach my destination,
I’ll be sure to pen a line.
For in that land of plenty,
I will surely have the time."

With that the Hobo’s head fell back,
For he had sung his last refrain.
And his partner swiped his hat and coat,
Then caught the southbound train.

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