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>From his live album `SOLO'.
I was walking by the graveyard late last Friday night
I heard somebody yelling it sounded like a fight.
It was just a drunken hobo dancing circles in the night
Pouring whiskey on the headstones in the blue moonlight.
So often have I wondered where these homeless brothers go
Down in some hidden valley were their sorrows cannot show
Where the police cannot find them where the wanted men can go.
There's freedom when your walking even though you're walking slow.
Smash your bottle on a gravestone and live while you can
that homeless brother is my friend.
It's hard to be a pack rat it's hard to be a 'bo
but living's so much harder where the heartless people go.
Somewhere the dogs are barking and the children seem to know
That Jesus on the highway was a lost hobo.
And they hear the holy silence of the temples in the hill
And they see the ragged tatters as another kind of thrill.
And they envy him the sunshine and they pity him the chill
And they're sad to do their living for some other kind of thrill.
Smash your bottle on a gravestone and live while you can
that homeless brother is my friend.
Somewhere there was a woman somewhere there was a child
Somewhere there was a cottage where the marigolds grew wild.
But somewhere's just like nowhere when you leave it for a while
You'll find the broken-hearted when you're traveling jungle-style.
Down the bowels of a broken land where numbers live like men
Where those who keep their senses have them taken back again
Where the nightstick cracks with crazy rage where madmen don't pretend
Where wealth has no beginning and poverty no end.
Smash your bottle on a gravestone and live while you can
that homeless brother is my friend.
The ghosts of highway royalty have vanished in the night
The Whitman wanderer walking toward a glowing inner light.
The children have grown older and the cops have gripped us tight
There's no spot round the melting pot for free men in their flight.
And you who leave on promises and prosper as you please
The victim of your riches often dies of your disease
He can't hear the factory whistle just the lonesome freight train's whirs
He's living on good fortune he ain't dying on his knees.
Smash your bottle on a gravestone and live while you can
that homeless brother is my friend.
That homeless brother is my friend.
(moins de barrés)