---

Shuddering his wife lay, hid in her bed.
As in fever her man rushed to the press,
Grapes cryed and shrieked in the crush,
His vine of rage, are the Grapes of Wrath,
His vine of rage,
Carts of iron rattled through his
Field, fish of steel had clogged his well,
Time is harvest,
Time to harvest now he spoke.
His vines of rage are the Grapes of Wrath,
His vines of rage are the Grapes that become, the seeds of
his Wrath.
And he learned, as he sows, so shall he reap.
Ah child its not a rave or a game, Give us back our land.

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