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