Letras
It's a mighty rough road that my poor hand has hoed
My poor feet have traveled a hot dusty road
Out of your Dust Bowl and Westward we rode
Your deserts were hot and your mountains were cold
I worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes
I slept on your ground 'neath the light of your moon
At the edge of your city you see us and then
We come with the dust and are gone with the wind
California, Arizona, I make all your crops
Then it's north up to Oregon to gather your hops
Take the beets from your ground, take the grapes from your vine
To lay on your table your light sparkling wine
Green pastures of plenty from dry desert ground
From the grand Coulee dam where the water runs down
Every state in this union us migrants have been
And workers must fight and we'll fight till we win
Well it's always we rambled, that river and I
All along your green valleys I'll work till I die
This land I'll defend with my life if it be
'Cause pastures of plenty must always be free