Tekster:
Guthrie Woody

Perhaps it's the color of the sun cut flat An' cov'rin' the crossroads I'm standin' at Or maybe it's the weather or somethin' like that But mama, you

go to the church of your choice Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital You'll find God in the church of your choice You'll find Woody Guthrie in Brooklyn

Well, a curly-headed girl with a bright shining smile Heard the roar of a plane as it sailed through the sky To her playmates she said, with a bright

Sowing on the mountain Reaping in the valley Sowing on the mountain Reaping in the valley Sowing on the mountain Reaping in the valley You're gonna reap

Way down in Columbus Georgia Lord I wish I was back in Tennessee Way down in that old Columbus Stockade My friends all have turned their back on me.

Eats an' drinks an' smokes are gone, Ice on th'steps an' you cain't git home; Hang y'r things on th' peg in th' corner; Giggle an' wiggle an' dance a

Lots of folks back East, they say, is leavin' home every day Beatin' the hot old dusty way to the California line 'Cross the desert sands they roll, gettin

In bed with my woman, just a singing the blues And I heard the radio a telling the news Said, the big Red army took a hundred towns And the allies dropping

I ride an old Paint, I'm leadin' old Dan I'm goin' to Montana just to throw the houlihan They feed in the coulees, they water in the draw Their tails