Wherever

Boxcar Rudy had an old brown sack, A shirt on his shoulders and the sun on his back. Never owned a dollar he couldn't let go, Caught him a freight when he wanted to roam. He knew every yard from here to the coast, Never stayed long enough to need a post. Somebody asked him, "Rudy, where you bound?" He looked at the rails and he looked around... Wherever this train ain't been, Over that hill and around that bend. Don't need a ticket, don't need a plan, Just an open door and a helping hand. Hear those wheels sing under my feet— There's always another town down the line for me. He knew where the railroad bulls would turn their heads, Which little stations had coffee and bread. Knew an old cook down in Tennessee, And a brakeman somewhere near Abilene. He'd trade you a story for something to eat, Then sleep like a king with his boots on his feet. Wherever this train ain't been, Over that hill and around that bend. Don't need a ticket, don't need a plan, Just an open door and a helping hand. Hear those wheels sing under my feet— There's always another town down the line for me. Rudy got older, his beard turned grey, But you couldn't make that old man stay. Winter blew hard and the summers burned, Every mile gave him something he'd learned. He said, "Boy, you can lock your whole life indoors, Or wake every morning and see what's yours." Wherever this train ain't been, Over that hill and around that bend. Don't need a ticket, don't need a plan, Just an open door and a helping hand. Hear those wheels sing under my feet— There's always another town down the line for me. One cold morning that train rolled through, But nobody riding had seen old Rudy. His sack lay folded by an old boxcar door, And his boots weren't walking those tracks anymore. I stood by the rails while the westbound rolled, And remembered every story that old man told. Wherever this train ain't been, Over that hill and around that bend. No need for a ticket, no need for a plan, Just follow those rails as far as you can. And somewhere beyond where the long tracks end, I reckon old Rudy's rolling again. Most people called him a vagabond. Some called him a bum. A few called him Rudy... I called him Dad.