The Hobo

He sits in Claremore's railroad station Slapping mosquitoes as big as air craft carriers Blood runs down a neck parched as leather Mixes with sweat of that elusive honest day's work Hear those incessant crickets in dry prairie grass Noon sun, so unrelenting Winds rush by mocking a thirsty tongue Darn that black Ford that sends Burning dust down a poor man's throat Hey, kid get off those tracks Your mamma is calling you Let me put my tired ear to that Steel and listen For my train taking me to nowhere town...