Hobo Bill

Riding on an eastbound freight train, speeding through the night
Hobo Bill, the railroad bum, was a-fighting for his life

As the train sped through the darkness, with raging storm outside
Hobo Bill, the railroad bum, was taking his last ride

The sadness of his eyes revealed the torture of his soul
As he raised a weak and weary hand to brush away the cold

Outside the rain was a-pouring on that lonely boxcar door
And the little form of Hobo Bill lay still upon the floor

He heard the whistle blowing in a dreamy sort of way
The hobo seemed contented, for he smiled there where he lay

It was early in the morning when they raised the hobo's head
And the smile still lingered on his face, but Hobo Bill was dead

There was no mother's longing to think of his weary soul
He was nothing but a railroad bum who died out in the cold