Joe, the Hobo from Hoboken

He rode the rails as his home,
When with others he was still all alone;
From New Jersey he hailed
Before his life failed,
And he was reborn as a rolling stone.

No one knew Joe's last name,
Or from where his last meal came;
Having just one set of clothes
He lived the life that he chose,
He knew grime but Joe never felt shame.

Both face and jacket were smudged
With greasy black sludge
From the rails that he chose as his way;
Offered shelter and bed
He kept on rolling instead,
"Thank you kindly" would be all that he said.

Wearing a face known to many
Joe rode on down the line,
Never unpacking his sack;
He kept things inside
For his life's long sad ride,
As he moved on he never looked back.

Hoboken's what was
He decided because
Trains never run fast in reverse;
He would never return
To what he had learned,
For do so would be quite perverse.

The rails were made to ride
By roaming people stuffed deep inside,
Like Joe from old Hoboken;
He would never be caught
With the thoughts that he thought,
He was bent but not ever broken.

As world economy dives ever south,
More people become down in the mouth;
There are not enough freight cars to go 'round.
We have run short of rails
And of wind to fill sails,
Poverty makes a sad, hollow sound.

Many may have not far to go
To arrive at the life space
Of Joe, the hobo.