| Baby, I know that we’ve got trouble in the fields
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| When the bankers swarm like locusts they’re turning away our yields
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| Our dreams roll by our silo, silver in the rain
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| And leave our pockets full of nothing and our dreams in the golden grain
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| Have you sees the folks in line downtown at the station?
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| They’re all buying their tickets out and they’re talking a great depression
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| Our parents had their hard times fifty years ago
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| When they stood out in these empty fields in dust as deep as snow
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| And all this trouble in our fields
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| If this rain can fall, these wounds can heal
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| They’ll never take our native soil
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| If we sell that new John Deere
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| Then we’ll work these farm with sweat and tears
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| You’ll be the mule, I’ll be the plow
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| Come harvest time, we’ll work it out
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| There’s still a lot of love
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| Here in these troubled fields
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| There’s a book up on the shelf about the dust bowl days
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| There’s a little bit of you and a little bit of me in the photos in every page
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| Now our children live in the city and they rest upon our shoulders
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| They never want the rain to fall or the weather to get colder
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| And all this trouble in our fields
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| If this rain can fall these wounds can heal
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| They’ll never take our native soil, no If we sell that new John Deere
|
| Then we’ll work these farm with sweat and tears
|
| You’ll be the mule, I’ll be the plow
|
| Come harvest time, we’ll work it out
|
| There’s still a lot of love
|
| Here in these troubled fields
|
| You’ll be the mule, I’ll be the plow
|
| Come harvest time, we’ll work it out
|
| There’s still a lot of love
|
| Here in these troubled fields |