Hobo Poetry
I’d be more than happy to post some other Hobo poetry If you have some send it to richard@cyberhobo.com
More Coffee Please
Sometimes we see a Hobo with dead black eyes
We think to ourselves, how sad he must be
This truth is he’s burned out from all the excitement and joy
You see he has seen all there is to see, not known by you and me
He’s just recharging to go on another Adventure
He’s not one to pity, it is us that he pities, as he looks up and says, more coffee pleas
Buzz Potter – Poems of the Hobo Road – Awesome Collection by Buzz Potter. His CD is $14.99
A New Breed of Hobo
Most of the old Hobo’s
Have caught the Westbound and are gone
A new breed of Hoboes are emergine
CyberHobo’s are alive and strong!
We have that same wunderlust
as our brothers of yesteryear did in their time
To hit the road a runnin’
And leave everything behind
We travel with our computers, websites, and blogs
Working our way while travelin
‘takin’ our backpacks, brains, and cellphones
and some even take their faithful ol’ dogs
So when you see us out there
remember we’re brothers with the same callin’
So put on the coffee, soup and good story
And afterward we’ll Thank God
for keeping us safe while Travelin’
Goodbye, Little Joe
There were too many mouths to feed
So Little Joe felt the need
To leave home and ride the rail
And thought it best to cover his trail.
The first day he didn’t get far
Just forty miles in a boxcar
The fall of night brought time to sup
And Joe felt lucky to jungle up.
He had a potato and an onion or two
To add to the pot of Mulligan stew
Then he listened to traveling tales told
By an old Master Of The Road.
Through the night he didn’t sleep well
So in transit in the morning he fell
To sleep on a long haul heading west
His hobo sack gathered to his chest.
A junkie hopping from the same yard
Cracked Joe’s head and cracked it hard
And took the nickel note from Joe’s shoe
As jack rolling junkies were known to do.
The remains of Little Joe can be found
Shallowly buried three feet down
In a hobo graveyard in east Illinois
“12 Year Old Little Joe – Hobo Boy”
‘Hark’ ‘I hear her whistling,
I must catch her on the fly:
One more scoop of beer I’d like,
Once more before I die.’
The hobo stopped, his head fell back,
he’d sung his last refrain.
His partner took his hat and shoes,
and caught the east-bound train.
– A common hobo poem
Hobo Erectus
when we quit the road at night,
And the birds were folding up their music-bars,
Just to smoke a little bit; rub his chin a while, and sit
Like a Hobo statue, looking at the stars.
Hobos Through History
You wonder why I’m a hobo and sleep in the ditch
Well it’s not because I’m lazy, I just don’t want to be rich.
Now I could be a banker if I wanted to be,
But the thought of an iron cage is too suggestive to me.
Now I could be a broker without the slightest excuse,
But look at 1929 and tell me what’s the use.
– A hobo poem
We hear the merry jingle,
The rumble and the roar,
As she dashes through the woodland,
As she creeps along the shore.
We hear the engine’s whistle
And the hardy hobos call,
As we ride the rods and brakebeams
On the Wabash Cannonball.
Old man, old man Hobo
got a funky car, oil like tar,
but that’s a good thing,
he ain’t a going very far.
Old man, old man Hobo
got a fishin’ pole,
but don’t mistake it
for that copper pipe,
he gave up long ago.
He’s my old man,
wait and see,
he gonna take me back,
to Mississippi.
He my old man
and I can’t wait,
’till I meet ’em at the gate.
Old man, old man Hobo
got a funky car, oil like tar,
but that’s a good thing,
he ain’t a going very far.
“All around the water tank
waitin’ for a train
i’m a thousand miles away from home
just a’standin’ in the rain.”
You wonder why I’m a hobo and sleep in the ditch
Well its not because I’m lazy, I just don’t want to be rich.
Now I could be a banker if I wanted to be,
But the thought of an iron cage is too suggestive to me.
Now I could be a broker without the slightest excuse,
But look at 1929 and tell me what’s the use.
Traditional Hobo Verse
I’m sittin’
Drinkin’
Waitin’
Thinkin’
Hopin’ for a train.
The Big Rock Candy Mountain
“One evening as the sun went down
And the jungle fire was burning
Down the track came a hobo hiking
And he said, “Boys I’m not turning-
I’m heading for a land that’s far away,
Beside the crystal fountain.
So, come with me; we’ll go and see
The Big Rock Candy Mountain.”
The Big Rock Candy Mountain, a famous old hobo poem.
Bread
Oh, my heart it is just achin’
For a little bit of bacon
A hunk of bread, a little mug of brew
I’m tired of seein’ scenery
Just lead me to a beanery
Where there’s something more than only air to chew
Henry Herbert Knibbs, “Songs of the Outlands: Ballads of the Hoboes & Other Verse,” Houghton, Mifflin 1914.
Nothing To Do But Go
I’m wondering son with the nervous feet,
That never were meant for a steady beat,
I’ve had many a job for a little while,
I’ve been on the bum and I’ve lived in style;
And there was the road, stretchin’ mile after mile,
And nothing to do but go.
The Hobo
I will long remember when the hoboes came around.
They walked along the railroad tracks and slept upon the ground.
They’d stop at certain houses, ’tis said they marked the gate,
to beg a bite. If you were lucky, they would work for what they ate.
If Dad was home, they’d sit awhile. Now, many tales I’ve heard
about their many journeys, believing every word.
‘Twas usually a tale of woe; no family to care
if they wore ragged clothing and never cut their hair.
Yes, they had many stories why they’d taken to the trail.
But, they kept a watch for lawmen, for vagrants got thrown in jail.
Altho’ they lived along the road, they didn’t look too unclean.
(Tho I recall once Mom shampooed us kids with kerosene.)
There was one drifter who’d stop by our gate, year after year.
We couldn’t help but wonder ’bout him, when one Fall he didn’t appear.
It’s been a long time since a hobo wandered down our lane.
But he’s back there in my mem’ry near the whistle of the train.
– Lillian Arnold Lopez “Pineylore”
Early every morning the shefiff comes around
He gives us rotten herring that weighs a quarter pound.
With coffee like tobacco juice and bread that’s hard and stale.
And that is the way they fed us boes in Cecil County Jail.
Bill Quirke, Hobo.
Granddad I want to be a hobo
That’s what I want to do
Help me if you can, when I get to be a man
I want to be a hobo too.
Traditional Hobo Verse.
Where is My Wondering Brat Tonight!
Where is my wandering boy tonight?
The boy of his mother’s pride.
Oh, he’s counting the ties with a bed on his back.
Or else he is dinging a ride.
He’s on the head of a cattle train, lady
That’s where y’re brat is tonight.
His heart may be pure as the morning dew.
But his togs are a slight to see.
If he’s nailed for a vag (vagarant), his plea won’t do.
“Sixty day,” said the judge, “you see.”
Oh, where is my boy tonight?
Oh, where is my boy tonight?
The chilly wind blows, to the hoosegow he goes.
That’s where you brat is tonight!
An old Hobo ballad.
Hallelujah, I’m a Bum
Oh why don’t you work
Like other men do.
How the hell can I work
When there’s no work to do?
Hallelujah, I’m a bum.
Hallelujah, bum again
Hallelujah, give us a handout
To revive us again.