Pickers

I have seen the story of the blood upon our streets,

  And watched the knights a-marching festooned in all their sheets.

They chased the pickers off just for picking in their path,

  Now there’s no one left to pick all those grapes of wrath.

Will the barbers and the lawyers show up to pick the crop,

  While the greedy politicians refuse to make it stop?

Mine eyes won’t tell me whether it is truth that’s marching on,

  Or if it is the sorrow of the rights that are now long gone.

He is not an enemy, just let him be a kid,

  Beneath the magic mountains where the joy of youth is hid.

His truth has done marched on.

Glory, glory Hallelujah,

Glory, glory, What’s it to ya,

Glory, glory Hallelujah!

His truth has done marched on.

It is hard to know the story of the fate we’re headed toward,

  Today, there is a tyrant with a dull and rusty sword.

The picker is a man of humble dignity,

  He only lives to serve the likes of you and me.

Now, we put him in a cage in a gulag far from home,

  Without a change of clothes, he don’t even get a comb.

And those who follow Jesus on the road they think he trod,

  Claim to love their neighbor and the one they call their God.

We can see a hundred Klansmen as they burn a cross at dawn,

 There is no hallowed ground; the lines are sharply drawn.

His truth is dead and gone,

Glory, glory Hallelujah,

Glory, glory, What’s it to ya?

Glory, glory, Hallelujah!

His truth is dead and gone.

I have seen the crying faces of kids in bunny hats,

  Herded into cars by men with masks and bats.

And I have to wonder what will become of us,

  When we put the last picker on the southbound bus.

The preachers and the birthers may have to go to hell,

  Or out into the fields that the pickers know so well.

In truth, it was a con,

Glory, glory, Hallelujah

Glory, glory, He will sue ya,

Glory, glory, Hallelujah!

In truth, it was a con.

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