D           
Under bridges, beneath trestles, in the boxcars of dead trains
 Bm
Livin' to beat the cold, of the pourin' drivin' rain
    D
A silent society moves out in the night
        Bm                                    C  F                 D
Ragged rebels, homeless hobos, and those like me, who've lost the light.

        D
Saint Peter is a prophet, to all the hobo world
     Bm 
An expert on everything, from caviar to girls
   D
I met him west of Memphis, on the eighth of July
     Bm                       C      F    D
He handed me a can of beans, and a rusty knife.

               F#m           G                   D
And he said "Everything out here ain't what it seems
     F#m                  G          D              A
And when you're down to nothin' just go ahead and dream
              D
And face the fact that you're a circle, in a world full of squares,
          F            C                           D
Tradin' sorrows for tomorrows, that's the hobo's prayer.

Mother Mary is a lady, from down in New Orleans
She's seen a lot of livin', since she was seventeen,
She said "I'm bona fide and worldly wise, with original parts,
'Cept for what set me to travellin', I'm talkin' about my heart"

She said "I can spot a broken heart from twenty miles away.
So are you passin' through, or have you come to stay?"
"You're runnin' from a woman", she said with a grin,
"So what've you got to say?" And I said: "I am a Pilgrim"

Where everything out here ain't what it seems
And when I'm down to nothin' I just go ahead and dream
And face the fact that I'm a circle, in a world full of squares
Tradin' sorrows for tomorrows, and that's the hobo's prayer.