| 1. I choose not to see the things that be,
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| Or the miles and years that are gone.
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| I pay no heed to tomorrow’s need,
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| I’m blinded by the snow and the sun,
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| 'til all I could see is my darlin' and me,
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| Like young flowers bloomin' in spring.
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| Like flowers that grew, and no other I knew,
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| But the Rose of the San Joaquin.
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| 2. The gypsies would dance, while stealing a glance
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| As leaves might blow in the wind.
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| And the fields are worked in a sweat stained shirt,
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| Then the workers all move on again.
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| And the tramps and hawkers, with stories wild,
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| Beguiled a young boy’s dreams,
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| Enticing me to leave my home,
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| And the Rose of the San Joaquin.
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| 3. I’ve watched the rise of light in the sky
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| When the sun climbs out of the sea.
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| Seen giants fall in mountains tall,
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| Where the lumbermen cut down the trees.
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| I’ve played in the sand with the gulf coast wind,
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| Fell asleep in the grass tall and green.
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| But nowhere I’ve been would I go back again,
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| Compared to the San Joaquin.
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| 4. Well the road back home is hard and it’s long,
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| And the miles, they turn into years.
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| And the tramps and hawkers in every town,
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| By God, but it brings me to tears.
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| When I got home, I found just a flower on the mound
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| Where it shamed the green grasses of spring.
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| It grew from the grave of my darlin' little girl,
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| The Rose of the San Joaquin.
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| 5. Oh see us today out on the highway,
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| Or asleep in the doors of the train.
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| See the gypsies dance with their damned old glances,
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| Hear the peddlers cry out their refrain.
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| And who’s gonna care, and who’s gonna share
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| All the joys, the sorrows we’ve seen?
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| Like ghosts, we roam, without friends or home,
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| These tramps, and hawkers and me.
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| Like ghosts, we roam, without friends or home,
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| These tramps, and hawkers and me. |