Trampin life for me. You sometimes spy us pa**in by rails and gutters, alleyways and highways on the sly. Lies been told and now we hobos follow one of two men, I guess you call em generals or some likewise thing.
Quit my buskin, beatin trains, back door bummin, and dodgin bulls. Wear the badge of the Bindlestiff Boys now, I go to war. Code of the Road's been broke, now the jungle's deadly dark. Hid behind blanket rucks and set b**by traps neath stew pots. Cracked cookee's head on the tracks too. Yeggs poisoned me with a spider pan down yonder spur line. Tracked that yegg by smell and got his blood all in my shoes. Stay away from missions, there ain't no chance we will be saved cause all of em drifters grind their shivs, waitin for lights out.
So our generals cocted a plan, they'd stand atop the tresle. Men on either side watched below. Clem chucked his beans. We laughed. Last to leap from the tracks wins and hells, that rattler was comin fast round the blind, whistlin mad. Gone was the bad blood, only cheers, all us shoutin praise and tears fallin as the cowcatch come. All won that day for neither man budged but clasped their hands. The squeal of brake never did quite sound.