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.
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