| He sits alone in one small room |
| Of a shabby railroad flat |
| He reads his yellowed clippings |
| Folds them up and puts them back |
| He knows that the world’s not the place that it seems |
| And oh, oh, oh he dreams |
| There’s somebody there |
| He stifles his emotions |
| And he wipes them from his face |
| He shuffles around his secret things |
| Hidden in their secret place |
| And nobody knows where the stranger will go |
| And oh, oh, oh he knows |
| That nobody cares |
| No nobody cares |
| And he comes when he’s summonned |
| And he does what must be done |
| And he lives for the movement |
| He takes pride in being one |
| Of the lucky and the chosen |
| And the perfect men |
| And the stranger |
| Is with us again |
| From a valley in the rhineland |
| To the deserts of iran |
| From a valley they called jonestown |
| To a meeting of the clan |
| Nobody knows where the strangers will go |
| And oh, oh, oh you know |
| They’ll always be there |
| They’ll always be there |
| And they comes when they’re summonned |
| And they does what must be done |
| And they lives for the movement |
| They takes pride in being one |
| Of the lucky and the chosen |
| And the perfect men |
| And the strangers |
| Are with us again |
| Yes the strangers |
| Are with us again |