| Load up the old dodge truck
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| We’ll leave what we can’t sell
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| Nobody needs a sharecropper’s tools
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| Or a dust filled well
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| Take you one last look around
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| Shed you one last tear
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| For the broken plow, the broken dreams
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| And the life we’re leaving here
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| Pull the lines down tight
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| The kids can ride on top of the load
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| In the cool of the night
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| They can crawl underneath the tarp
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| To stay out of the cold
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| Eleven hundred miles of mountain and sand
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| We’ll cross 'em tired and torn
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| If this beat up truck can carry us
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| Far enough away from the storm
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| We’re going to California
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| There’s work there for a man
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| Too proud to beg for charity
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| Too poor to make a stand
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| Pray it’s just the land we’re losing
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| Not my life’s blood that I leave
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| On the handles of that broken plow
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| That haunts me in my dreams
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| A man at a roadside station
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| Don’t like dealing with my kind
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| He’d beat me out of my last dollar
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| And never look me in the eye
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| I heard 'em call us okies
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| Hell I don’t know what that means
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| But something tells me the promised land
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| Ain’t as promising as it seems
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| This restless road is full of strangers
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| They ain’t no stranger than I am
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| Hardened faces damn the dust and curse the wind
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| That drove us from this life and home
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| We’ll never know again
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| On the handles of my broken plow that haunts me in my dreams |