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Baby, I know that we got trouble in the fields |
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When the bankers swarm like locust out there |
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Turning away our yield |
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The trains roll by our silos, silver in the rain |
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They leave our pockets full of nothing |
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But our dreams and the golden grain |
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Have you seen the folks in line downtown at the station? |
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They're all buying their tickets out |
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And they're talking The Great Depression |
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Our parents had their hard times fifty years ago |
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When they stood out in these empty fields |
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In dust as deep as snow |
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And all this trouble in our fields |
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If this rain can fall, these wounds can heal |
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They'll never take our native soil |
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But if we sell that new John Deere |
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And then we'll work these crops with sweat and tears |
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You'll be the mule, I'll be the plow |
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Come harvest time, we'll work it out |
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There's still a lotta love here in these troubled fields |
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There's a book up on the shelf about the dust bowl days |
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And there's a little bit of you and a little bit of me |
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In the photos on every page |
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Now our children live in the city |
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And they rest upon our shoulders |
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They never want the rain to fall or the weather to get colder |
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And all this trouble in our fields |
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If this rain can fall, these wounds can heal |
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They'll never take our native soil |
|
But if we sell that new John Deere |
|
And then we'll work these crops with sweat and tears |
|
You'll be the mule, I'll be the plow |
|
Come harvest time, we'll work it out |
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There's still a lotta love here in these troubled fields |
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You'll be the mule, I'll be the plow |
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Come harvest time, we'll work it out |
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There's still a lotta love, here in these troubled fields |
