Nobody Knows
By EDWARD CONNOR.
Oh, nobody knows where the hobo goes,
Nobody knows, nobody knows;
Nobody knows where the hobo goes,
That’s the way the old song goes.
Boom a little saxophone, rap the little drums,
Make a little music for the doggone bums,
And we'll sing a little ditty till the old freight comes,
Then we’re going where nobody knows.
There's nobody knows where the hobo goes
When the sun shines warm and jungles call,
Oh, nobody knows where the old bo goes
When the long straw's yellow in the fall.
Old cars a-coughin' up the old Soo line,
Hoosier's surely makin' that old separator whine,
Pitchin' in the field is where the old boes shine;
Oh, nobody knows where the old bo goes
When the long straw's yellow in the fall.
And nobody knows where the young bo goes
When the cold north wind
Starts to whistle through his clothes;
Oh, nobody knows where the young bo goes
When the snowballs rattle on his spine.
Turp' camp down in Gawgia,
Cracker on a stump;
Big bull whip he carries, makes the blizzard-dodgers hump;
Watch 'em flag it out of Gawgia when they've done their little bump;
But nobody knows where the young bo goes,
When the snowballs rattle on his spine.
Oh, nobody knows where the hobo goes,
When his pals don't meet him any more,
Nobody knows where the hobo goes,
When he's tapped on his last back door.
Katy flier strung him half a mile.
Not much left except the clothes he wore.
Not so loudly, saxophone; not so lively drum,
A little soft music for a hard luck bum,
And we'll sing a little ditty till the track hands come,
To put him where he should have been before.
For nobody knows where the hobo goes,
The young bo goes, the old bo goes,
Oh, nobody knows where the dead bo goes
When he's tapped on his last back door.