I'm a long way from you,

I'm a long way from home.

And who cares for the feeling

Of being alone?

The notes and the words

They will always unfold

And I'm left with a manuscript

That will grow old

And the secrets all told anyway.



So the song it is yours,

And the song it is mine.

And a cold wind it blows

Through good fortunes of time.

The hobo he leaves

When the going is bad

And the music he weaves

Is so gentle and sad.

But freedom he has anyway.