Текст:
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,В
Pouring whiskey on the headstones in the blue moonlightВ
So often have I wondered where these homeless brothers go,В
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 slowВ
Smash your bottle on a gravestone and live while you can,В
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 some where's just like nowhere when you leave it for a while,
You'll find the broken-hearted when you're travelling 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 night stick 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
wheeze,
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 friendВ
I heard somebody yelling, it sounded like a fight
It was just a drunken hobo dancing circles in the night,В
Pouring whiskey on the headstones in the blue moonlightВ
So often have I wondered where these homeless brothers go,В
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 slowВ
Smash your bottle on a gravestone and live while you can,В
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 some where's just like nowhere when you leave it for a while,
You'll find the broken-hearted when you're travelling 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 night stick 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
wheeze,
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 friendВ
