(S. Nachtsheim, 1976)
Last week I met a guy
Who looked sad and blue,
He said, "I got no bread
And no place to go,
Tell me, Mister, what can I do?"

I looked him right in the eyes and said,
"How come you ain't got no home?
'Cause everybody I know around here,
has a nice little place of his own.
I understand you're just another tramp,
Who thinks that working's
Just a waste of time.
With your guitar in your hand,
you travel all through the land
As long as people pay, I admit that way,
Of living's really fine.

He said, "Mister, please stop talking,
'Cause what you say ,it just ain't right.
Sure I'd like to work,
But they don't want me,
'Cause I can't read nor write
I'can't help I've never been to school,
'Cause my father was a wand'ring star.
All he taight me was how to pick cotton,
And how to play my guitar."
But since cotton's being picked by big machines,
I gotta play guitar for just a plate of baked beans.
And though you may think,
Iit's a pretty lazy life,
I'd like to be you, I'd like to work hard,
Have children and a wife.

I sad, "Hey, buddy, you can't kid me,
I don't believe your story's real.
If no-one of my neighbours's
gonna kick you in the ass,
I swear, godamn, I will.
An't gonna give you a doggone penny
Just to buy another bottle of booue.
And though you may have nothing to win,
You better piss off,
'Cause you still got something to lose."

But two days later, when I read the news,
I can tell you, I got caught by the blues,
A small report, about five lines long,
Read, "Tramp found dead,
'cause no-one gave a nickle for his song.
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