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The sweat upon his brow and the dirt worked into his hands |
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The dignity of labor upon a man's own land |
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The soil of his fathers passed on down through blood to hand |
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A man's right of birth to reap the harvest from his land |
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The breaking of his back to keep his dream alive |
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To work the change of season, his instinct to survive |
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The planting of his seed and to see his harvest grow |
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Gives a pride to a man to reap the harvest that he sows |
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The land of the free, home of the brave |
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The heartland of pioneers, the heritage of flesh and blood |
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And along come the winds that blow through the land |
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With a price to pay for the working man |
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Money talks and changes hands |
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And money reaps the harvest, money demands |
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The grapes of wrath |
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They can take away his freedom |
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They can beat him into the dust |
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They can burn his home, run him from his land |
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And leave him out to gather rust |
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But they can't take away his faith |
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And his honesty and pride |
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And the knowledge he holds inside |
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One day they'll reap the harvest, the grapes of wrath |
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There's hope in a man that nothing can destroy |
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A man will endure anything |
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For the dream that he holds dear |
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And there's pride in a man who knows the truth |
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His faith in the Earth he toils for |
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His honesty for the air he breathes |
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The truth of the harvest they will reap |
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The grapes of wrath |
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The grapes of wrath |
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The grapes of wrath |