GRAPES OF WRATH
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Shuddering his wife lay, hid in her bed. As in fever her man rushed to the press,
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grapes cryed and shrieked in the crush, his vine of rage, are the Grapes of Wrath,
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His vine of rage, Carts of iron rattled through his field, fish of steel had clogged his well,
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time is harvest, time to harvest now he spoke. His vines of rage are the Grapes of Wrath,
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His vines of rage are the Grapes that become, the seeds of his Wrath.
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And he learned, as he sows , so shall he reap.
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Ah child its not a rave or a game, Give us back our land
kirkbrandon.com
tab and chords :steve (muma) and marzer
