Box 10, Byron, Okla.
Where are the hoboes of yester year?
Who reaped and threshed the wheat.
The boys who ate, and ate and ate,
The boys with the itching feet.
Where are the hoboes of other days,
Who picked the cotton by the Rio’s
tide,
And pitched the northern hay.
Where are the hoboes of yester year
With their colorful jungle slang,
Who toiled all day in the summer’s
heat
At evening laughed and sang.
Where are the hoboes of the olden
days,
Who sat by the cook shack door
And told their tales of jungle life
And many a foreign shore.
Where are the hoboes of yester year
The boys of the mulligan stew,
The boys we liked for their fun and
wit,
The boys of the threshing crew.
Where are the hoboes of by gone days
Who were free as the winds that blow
Tonight we envy their care free way
As we sit by the firelight’s glow.
Where are the hoboes of yester year
Who mocked the coyote’s cry.
From potters field to potters field
In unmarked graves they lie.
