It's a mighty rough road,
my poor hands that hold.
My poor feet have traveled,
hot dusty road.
Out of your dust bowl westward we rode,
And your deserts were hot and your mountains were cold.
California,
Arizona,
make all your crops,
Then up north to Oregon to gather your hops.
Dig the beets from the ground,
pull your grapes from the vine,
To sit on your table with a lot of sparkling wine.
Well
I slept on the ground in the light of your moon.
I worked in your orchards,
the preaches and prunes.
Wherever your crops are, I'll lend you my hand.
I'll ramble all over your green growing land.
Green pastures of plenty from dry desert ground.
From the Grand Coulee *** where your waters run down.
Every state in this union,
us migrants have been.
We'll work in your fight,
and we'll fight till we win.
Well it's always we've rambled,
that river and I.
I'll wander your valleys till the day that I die.
On the edge of your cities,
you'll see us and then,
We'll come with the dust,
and we're gone with the wind.
Green pastures of plenty from a dry desert ground.
From the Grand Coulee *** where your waters run down.
This
land I'll defend with my life if it be.
Cause my pastures of plenty must always be free.