Lyrics Vanzetti's Letter - Woody Guthrie

Vanzetti's Letter

The year, it is 1927, an' the day is the third day of May;
Town is the city called Boston, an' our address this dark Dedham jail
To your honor, the Governor Fuller, to the council of Massachussetts state
We, Bartolomo (sic) Vanzetti, an' Nicola Sacco, do say:
Confined to our jail here at Dedham an' under the sentence of death
We pray you do exercise your powers an' look at the facts of our case
We do not ask you for a pardon, for a pardon would admit of our guilt;
Since we are both innocent workers, we have no guilt to admit
We are both born by parents in Italy, can’t speak English too well;
Our friends of labor are writin' these words, back of the barsin our cell
Our friends say if we speak too plain, sir, we may turn your feelings away
Widen these canyons between us, but we risk our life to talk plain
We think, sir, that each human bein' is in close touch with all of man’s kind
We think, sir, that each human bein' knows right from the wrong in his mind
We talk to you here as a man, sir, even knowing our opinions divide;
We didn’t kill the guards at South Braintree, nor dream of such a terrible crime
We call your eye to this fact, sir, we work with our hand and our brain;
These robberies an' killings, were done, sir, by professional bandit men
Sacco has been a good cutter, Mrs. Sacco their money has saved;
I, Vanzetti, l could have saved money, but I gave it as fast as received
L’m a dreamer, a speaker, an' a writer;
I fight on the working folks' side
Sacco is Boston’s fastest shoe trimmer, and he talks to the husbands and wives
We hunted your land, and we found it, hoped we’d find freedom of mind
Built up your land, this Land of the Free, an' this is what we come to find
If we was those killers, good Governor, we’d not be so dumb and so blind
To pass out our handbills and make workers' speeches, out here by the scene of
the crime
Those fifteen thousands of dollars the lawyers and judge said we took
Do we, sir, dress up like two gentlemen with that much in our pocketbook?
Our names are on the long list of radicals of the Federal Government, sir
They said that we needed watching as we peddled our literature
Judge Thayer’s mind’s made up, sir, when we walked into the court;
Well, he called us anarchistic bastards, said lots of other things worse
They brought people down there to Brockton to look through the bars of our cell
Made us act out the motions of the killers, and still not so many could tell
Before the trial ever started, the jury foreman did say
An' he cussed us an' said, «Damn they, well, they’d ought to hang anyway.»
Our fatal mistake was carryin' our guns, about which we had to tell lies
To keep the police from raiding the homes of workers believing like us
A labor paper, or a picture, a letter from a radical friend
An old cheap gun like you keep around home, would torture good women and men
We all feared deporting and whipping, torments to make us confess
The place where the workers are meeting, the house, your name, and address
Well.
the officers said we feared something which they called a consciousness
of guilt
We was afraid of wreckin' more homes, and seein' more workers' blood spilt
Well, the very first question they asked us was not about killing the clerks
But things about our labor movement, and how our trade union works
Oh, how could our jury see clearly, when the lawyers, and judges, and cops
Called us low type Italians, said we looked just like regular wops
Draft dodgers, gun packers, anarchists, these vulgar sounding names
Blew dust in the eyes of jurors, the crowd in the courtroom the same
We do not believe, sir, that torture, beatings, and killings and pains
Will lift man’s eyes to a highest of view an' break his bilbos and chains
We believe that you must struggle for freedom before your freedom you’ll gain
Freedom from fear, sir, and greed, sir, and your freedom to think higher things
This fight, sir, is not a new battle, we did not make it last night
'Twas fought by Godwin, Shelly, Pisacane, Tolstoy and Christ;
It’s bigger than the atoms an' the sands of the desert, planets that roll in
the sky;
Till workers get rid of their robbers, well, it’s worse, sir, to live than to
die
Your Excellency, we’re not askin' pardon but askin' to be set free
With liberty, and pride, sir, and honor, and a pardon we will not receive
A pardon you given to criminals who’ve broken the laws of the land;
We don’t ask you for pardon, sir, because we are innocent men
Well, if you shake your head «no», dear Governor, of course, our doom it is
sealed
We hold up our heads like two sons of men, seven years in these cells of steel
We walk down this corridor to death, sir, like workers have walked it before
But we’ll work in our working class struggle if we live a thousand lives more