# Subject: CRD: m/don_mclean/homeless_brother.crd Date: Tue, 13 Feb 1996 14:12:41 +0100 From: Juergen Wuest (HiWi CEMP) <wuest@informatik.uni-kl.de> Homeless Brother - Don McLean ----------------------------- >From his live album 'SOLO'.

I was ^Awalking by the graveyard, ^Dlate last Friday night, I ^F#heard somebody yelling, it ^Bmsounded like a fight. It was ^Gjust a drunken ^Dhobo dancing ^Bmcircles in the ^Gnight, Pouring ^Dwhiskey on the ^Aheadstones ^Gin the blue moon^Dlight. So ^Goften have I ^Awondered where these ^Dhomeless brothers ^Bmgo, ^EDown in some hidden valley were their ^Asorrows cannot show,^G# Where the ^Gpolice cannot ^Dfind them, where the ^Bmwanted men can ^Ggo. There's ^Dfreedom when your ^Awalking, ^Geven though you're walking ^Dslow.

^GSmash your bottle on a ^Agravestone and ^Dlive while you ^Bmcan, ^Ethat homeless ^Abrother is my ^Dfriend.

It's hard to be a pack rat, it's hard to be a 'bo, but living's so much harder where the heartless people go. Somewhere the dogs are barking and the children seem to know That Jesus on the highway was a lost hobo. And they hear the holy silence of the temples in the hill, And they see the ragged tatters as another kind of thrill. And they envy him the sunshine and they pity him the chill, And they're sad to do their living for some other kind of thrill. Smash your bottle on a gravestone and live while you can, that homeless brother is my friend. Somewhere there was a woman, somewhere there was a child, Somewhere there was a cottage where the marigolds grew wild. But somewhere's just like nowhere when you leave it for a while, You'll find the broken-hearted when you're traveling jungle-style. Down the bowels of a broken land where numbers live like men, Where those who keep their senses have them taken back again, Where the nightstick cracks with crazy rage, where madmen don't pretend, Where wealth has no beginning and poverty no end. Smash your bottle on a gravestone and live while you can, that homeless brother is my friend. The ghosts of highway royalty have vanished in the night, The Whitman wanderer walking toward a glowing inner light. The children have grown older and the cops have gripped us tight, There's no spot round the melting pot for free men in their flight. And you who leave on promises and prosper as you please, The victim of your riches often dies of your disease, He can't hear the factory whistle, just the lonesome freight train's whirs, He's living on good fortune, he ain't dying on his knees. Smash your bottle on a gravestone and live while you can, that homeless brother is my friend. That homeless brother is my friend.

Don McLean - Homeless brother