I saw a freight train chugging past,
And thought, while driving home to tea,
What it would mean to be really free
To board that train as hobos do,
With dungarees and hobnails, too.
With bread and tea in tucker bag,
A "dinkum" swag, a lighted fag,
A ragtime song as cinders fly,
To all the world I'd say good-bye;
T'would be at last a dream come true, But not for me, and not for you.
Square pegs, we must strive alone,
Chained to desk and telephone,
Birds in a gilded cage are we,
Longing, yet fearful, to be free. Perhaps three hundred miles away,
At the close of a drab, yet hectic, day,
A hobo sits round his fire o' nights
Dreaming of cafes and city lights;
To have a tie and collar job
(If I can ever quit this mob),
To tuck one's legs beneath a table,
Sleep in a bed, and not a stable.
Ride in a sleeper, even fly,
And watch the whole "darn" world roll by,
Would be at last a dream come true. But not for me, and not for you.
Square pegs we must ride alone.
When the bugle- calls, we'll own
Against the ledger, gain or loss,
We've rolled, but haven't gathered moss. Notes From the Western Australian Newspaper The Western Mail 15 Dec 1938 p. 8.