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
Your deserts were hot and your mountain was cold

I worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes
I 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’re gone with the wind

California Arizona, I made all your crops
Now it’s up 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 that light sparkling wine

Green pastures of plenty from dry desert ground
From the Grand Coulee Dam where the waters roll down
Every state in this Union us migrants have been
We'll stay in this fight and we'll fight until we win

Well, it's always we rambled, that river and I
All along your green valley, I work till I die
My land I'll defend with my life if it be
My pastures of plenty must always be free

© T.R.O. Inc.