| The sweat upon his brow and the dirt worked into his hands
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| The dignity of labour upon a mans own land
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| The soil of his fathers passes on down through blood to Hand
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| A mans 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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| The can take away his freedom they can beat him into the
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| Dust
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| They can burn his home, run him from his land, and leave
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| Him out to gather rust
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| But they can’t take away his faith and his honesty and
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| Pride and the knowledge that he holds inside
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| One day they’ll reap the harvest
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| 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 for the dream that he holds
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| 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 |