It's a mighty hard row that my poor hands has hoed
Dodaj interpretację do tego tekstu »
My poor feet has traveled a hot dusty road
Out of your dustbowl and westward we rode
And your deserts was hot and your mountains was cold.
I worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes
I slept on the ground in the light of the 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, Arizona, I make all your crops
Well it's up north 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 has been
We'll work in this fight and we'll fight till we win.
It's always we ramble that river and I
All along your green valley I will work until I die.
My land I'll defend with my life if need be
'Cause my pastures of plenty must always be free.
Historia edycji tekstu