Farmhand's Refrain

You Repocrat squires in the Farm Bureau, You Demirep lairds in the Grange, Your bigness content with the status quo And alarmed at the rumblings of Change, We'll never go fascist to froth and kill For assuring the girth of your belts: Not ours, not ours the farms we till, We're working for somebody else—

Ranging somebody else's ownsome ground, Lacking somebody else's thrill, Haunting somebody else's too profound, Just a-ghosting for somebody else!

We hirelings and sharecroppers here below, You thanes with your organized Front, We walking at last with the See-Eye-Oh, You in dread of an organized brunt, We'd languish till Gabriel ends it all, Should we wait till your apathy melts: Not ours, not ours the creed you bawl, We're working for somebody else—

Planting somebody else's ownsome Spring, Reaping somebody else's Fall, Making somebody else's proudness ring, Just a-serfing for somebody else!

For you--all these versions of A.A.A., More money on top of your means. For us--yet the paltry six bits a day, Through winter for bedding and beans. No matter how far from the Dixon line, How unAfric the shade of our pelts: Not ours, not ours your class-combine, We're working for somebody else—

Milking somebody else's ownsome cow, Calling somebody else's swine, Doing somebody else's chores, and how, Just a-being for somebody else!

Our Neighbors in Russia "belong" at least, No landlord impugning their worth; Have much consolation of goods increased, If not the sole havings of earth. What here on the chattelized veldts? Not ours, not ours the homes and cars, We're working for somebody else—

Breathing somebody else's ownsome air, Counting somebody else's stars, Finding somebody else's god up there Just a-ghosting for somebody else!