Lyrics:

Woody Guthrie
It's a mighty hard road that my poor hands have hoed My poor feet have traveled a hot, dusty road
Out of your dust bowls and westward we rode Your deserts were hot and your mountains were cold
I've wandered all over this green growing land Wherever your crops were, I've lent you my hands
On the edge of your city you'll see me and then, I come with the dust and I go with the wind
California, Arizona, I've worked all your crops Then it's North up to Oregon to gather your hops
Dig the beets from your ground Cut the grapes from your vines 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 run down
Every state in the Union this migrant has been I come with the dust and I go with the wind
It's always we ramble that river and I all along your green valley, I'll work 'til I die
And I'll travel this road until death sets me free for my pastures of plenty must always be green
I come with the dust and I go with the wind
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