It's a mighty hard row that my poor hands have hoed My poor feet have traveled a hot dusty road Out of your Dust Bowl and westward we rolled And your deserts were hot and your mountain was cold
I worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes Slept on the ground in the light of your moon On the edge of the city you'll see us and then We come with the dust and we go with the wind
California and Arizona, I make all your crops And its North up to Oregon to gather your hops Dig the beets from your ground, cut the grapes from your vine To set on your table your light sparkling wine
Green pastures of plenty from dry desert ground From the Grand Coulee Dam where the waters run down Every state in this Union us migrants have been We'll work in this fight and we'll fight till we winTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
