The Hobo

And he sits beside the fountain, with his head bowed down, don't look around
at the grey steel and the concrete
a man has never known a colder home
with fifty cents for burgundy a paper bag that holds a change of socks
and a bible that's too poor to hock. 
  
And I looked into his eyes; they were blue like mine, I recognized
the hollow sunken feeling like some work of art they painted
to hang upon the wall as we gathered round to praise the honesty
of one man's lonely mistery.
 
And every heart that ever broke
one man's dreams a heavy load that died
 from an overdose of on the road sits all alone. 
 
And I gave the man some money
and wished him well, as my eyes fell to his feet
the bottom of a body, wrapped up inside such ragged clothes
that i felt like a millionaire with little more, but rich  so rich in love
and no one gives a damn for him

And I hope that he finds Jesus or a bed tonight, or another drink
I'd take him home but you see now I don't live alone
and even if I did, some other reason would make me think
of the places that I must go.
 
And maybe if he got a shave and washed the blood off of his face
and changed his suit,
he'd be some use to this country, this prosperity
but he's bleeding in his soul; they haven't found a cure for that, you see,
except for maybe burgundy.

And every heart that ever broke
one man's dreams a heavy load that died
from an overdose of on the road sits all alone.