Irving L. Stevens
We met there ‘neath a railroad bridge,
Did hobo Bill and I;
While java boiled in a tomato can,
And cinders got in our eye.
We talked of rails and better days;
And exchanged too many woes:
Of railroad bulls and right-of-ways;
Wondered why we were bo’s.
Needing to explore leaky tank town
Detoured there for the bumming;
Stemmed the drag up town and down
The women saw us coming.
Beholding strangers in their midst,
Looked from behind the curtain cracks;
And tallied the supply of grits,
While dwelling near the railroad tracks.
We mooched too, stale bakery treats
Scraped a butchers block for chops:
And after exploiting the streets,
Shied to the jungle like a fox.
Over the acrid smell of coal,
The chops fried in a battered pan:
Doing nothing for the soul,
They satisfied the inner man.
A scraggy dog crept into camp,
It was a scroungy feller;
And was considered a “loner” tramp
That hadn’t heard of salmonella.
The music to the ears was sweet,
When a moving freight let whistle moan,
And shook the ground beneath our feet:
We tossed the hungry dog a bone.
Quaffed another pot of brew:
Journeyed a mile in others’ shoes;
With never a care for the lot we drew,
We waited for changing of the crews.
We hearkened to a mournful sound
Coming from depths of a loyal beast;
As my friend caught a west bound,
And I grabbed the cast.