The Hobo Song
by John Prine
There was a [D]time, when [G]lonely men would [D]wander;
Through this [A7]land, rolling endlessly [D]along.
So many [D]times, I've [G]heard of their sad [D]stories;
[D]Written in the [A]words of dead men's [D]songs.
Down through the years, many men have yearned for freedom.
Some found it only on the open road.
So many tears of blood have filled around them;
'Cause you can't alway do what you are told.
Please tell me where, have all the hobos gone to.
I see no light a'burning down by the rusty railroad tracks.
Could it be, that time has gone and left them,
Tied up in life's eternal travelling sack.
Last Sunday night, I wrote a letter to my loved one.
I signed my name and knew I'd stayed away too long.
There was a time when my heart was free to wander.
And I remember as I sing this hobo song.