The wind is
howling on your mountain
And the rain is pounding
on your shoulder
You feel rich, still getting richer
And you're poor,
still getting poorer
You're poor, still getting poorer
I've rambled through your city
And I've rambled through your town,
I slept many a night
Your grey high walls with floors
as cold as your ground
There was no other bed to be found
Your roadway hurts my feet
My suitcase hurts my hand
Your highway son burns my face
But I know I can't stop trav
eling through your land
I know I can't stop ped
aling through your land
Your cold rock has been my pillow
Your ground has been my bed
Your highway was my home
By your fence rail I'm gonna lay my head
By your fence rail I'm gonna
lay my head
I've rambled through your
southern country
Where grief and sickness fill the air
I've rambled through your
southern country
There was children born everywhere
There was children dyin' everywhere
I've watched your wealthy
wheeler -dealers
Puttin' in a poor man freeze
right to the bone
They're money -whiskey women
They ever leave their side
Like a poor man they're bound
to die alone
Yes, they were born and
they're gonna die alone
I've met your fair and tender ladies
My face is like a key to their front door
But a rambler's the kind of man
that's never married
They'll keep on lovin' you
a hundred times or more
Still keep on lovin' you a hundred times
or more
Sometimes I get sober
Sometimes get warm to
drinkin' wine
Though your wind is a
-howlin' round my shoulder
Well, my blood is frozen, pa cify my mind
Well, my blood is frozen,
think I'm feelin' fine
Your boxcar ain't no fiddle bit
Your whistle ain't no lovebird song
Your tracks ain't no ladder,
my true love's arm
To a train, please don't hold my arm
It's a train that's goin' home,
I know
Oh, where is that man you called
Jesus?
He never come when I could have my door
On my hands and my knees I've
been searchin'
But the only thing I found was my floor
But the only thing I found was your floor
People say a rambler's born to lose
Yeah, a gambler's always
born with a wounded hand
I try to close my ears when I
hear you whistle blow
But I know a man's got
bread and fruit to land
I know he's not ready to leave