Baby I know that we've got trouble in the fields
When the bankers swarm like locusts out there
turning away our yields
The trains roll by our silo, silver in the rain
And leave our pockets full of nothing
but our dreams and the golden grain
And all this trouble in our fields
If this rain can fall, these wounds can heal
They'll never take our native soil
What if we sell that new John Deere?
And then we'll work these crops with sweat and tear
You'll be the mule, I'll be the plow;
Come harvest time we'll work it out
There's still a lot of love,
here in these troubled fields
Have you seen the folks in line downtown at the station?