Come with me I'll take you, to the land of Yesterday.
To open fields where sweating men, hoe the weeds all day.
Home from toiling in the fields, come kids with aching backs,
From bending, picking "spuds"
for hours. and putting them in sacks.
Some working with the binders, stacking sheaves of corn.
Others gleaning fresh cut fields, have toiled since early morn.
Steam engines drive the threshers, elevators lift the straw,
To men with pitchforks, on the
stack, eight feet up or more.
Rural life is very hard, and depression's come to stay.
Hungry fathers look for work, dejectedly all day.
Children queuing in the cold, at kitchens for the poor,
Just for a bowl of watery soup,
to keep them from death's door.
Work is found by very few, and millions get no pay,
They scarce can find the courage, to face another day.
Folks who moan and want less work, more holidays with pay,
Deserve to be deported, to the land of Yesterday.
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