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