Hobo Queen

I wanna be a hobo woman
in fact, I want to be their queen.
I'll wander around the country
and dine on bum cuisine.
Which I imagine consists of
Thunderbird and cans of beans.

All I'll need are my sturdy legs
and a pair of steel tipped boots.
When other hobos get a glimpse of me
they will start to clap and hoot.
And hork up big balls of globby spit
in an admiring hobo salute.

As hobo queen I shall have my choice
of the finest cigarette butts.
A cardboard box to keep the rain off my head
and a pair of junkyard mutts.
If anyone tried to mess with me
they'd feel my knife in their guts.

Then I'd wait out in the railroad yard
for the next train to come along,
playing an old harmonica
and singing a fun folk song.
About a bum named Big John Toenail
who could open cans with his schlong.

I'd cuss and fart and fight all night,
maybe even grow a beard.
A silky blonde chin covering
for which I'd be revered.
Because a hirsuit, lady vagabond
is a woman to be feared.

Now you don't need to lecture me
about things like good hygiene.
Because, as every hobo knows
dirt makes the best sunscreen.
Bum wine works well to kill the germs
and bleach my black teeth green.

My breath will positively reek
like an outhouse in July.
My appearance will make children shriek
and grown men start to cry.
But if you dare make fun of me
you'll get stabbed in the eye.

A hobo queen demands respect
so you'd better quit that smirking.
Or my hobo army might get pissed
and then they'll start berserking.
You might not like our filthy life
but hey, it sure beats working.



All hail good Queen Prunella "Strangey" Jones! Oh yeah! Wooooooo!