Tom: C# minor•
Verse 1
C#m
Now, I'll get back to that song
by Woody Guthrie.
It's a mighty hard road
that my poor hands has hoed
My poor feet have traveled
a hot dusty road
Out of your dustbowl and
westward we rode,
And your deserts was hot
and your mountains was cold.
I've worked in your orchards
of peaches and prune,
Slept on the ground
neath the light of the moon.
On the edge of your city,
you will see us, then
We come with the dust,
and we're gone with the wind
California, Arizona,
I make all your crops
Then it's on up to Oregon,
E
C#m
E
to gather your hops
C#m
E
Cut the grapes,
C#m
dig the beets from your ground,
E
cut the grapes from your vine,
C#m
to put on your table that
light sparkling wine.
Green pastures of plenty
from dry desert ground,
E
from the Grand Coulee Dam
C#m
where the water's run down.
Every state in this union,
us migrants have been,
and we'll work in this fight,
and we'll fight till we win.
It's always we've rambled,
this river and I.
E
All along your green valley,
I'll live till I die
My land I'll defend with my life,
C#m
if it be for my pastures of
plenty must always be free
You
B
B
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