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It's a mighty hard row that my poor hands have hoed |
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My poor feet have traveled a hot dusty road |
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Out of your dust Bowl and Westward we rolled |
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Blue deserts so hot and your mountains so cold |
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I've wandered all over your green growing land |
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Where ever your crops are I've lent you my hands |
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On the edge of your cities, you'll see me and then |
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I come with the dust and I'm gone with the wind |
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California, Arizona, I'd worked on your crops |
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the North up to Washington to gather your hops |
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I got beets from your ground |
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I cut grapes from your vines |
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To sat on our table's and light sparkling wine |
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Green pastures of plenty from dry desert ground |
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From the grand Coulee Dam where the water runs down |
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Every state of this Union us migrants have been |
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We come with the dust and we're gone, with the wind |
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We come with the dust and we're gone, with the wind |
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And we're gone.. with the wind... |
