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For a few years now, I’ve learned to sit down, shut up and listen. I do that for a bit, then I write.

This Land

This Land

This land is your land, and this land is my land
From California to the New York island,
From the Redwood Forest, to the Gulf stream waters,
[This land was made for you and me.]

As I went walking that ribbon of highway
And I saw above me that endless skyway,
I saw below me that golden valley,
[This land was made for you and me.]

I roamed and rambled and I followed my footsteps
To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts,
All around me, a voice was sounding:
[This land was made for you and me.]

There was a big high wall there that tried to stop me
A sign was painted said: Private Property,
But on the back side it didn't say nothing —
[This land was made for you and me.]

When the sun come shining, then I was strolling
In wheat fields waving and dust clouds rolling;
The voice was chanting as the fog was lifting:
[This land was made for you and me.]

One bright sunny morning in the shadow of the steeple
By the Relief Office I saw my people —
As they stood hungry, I stood there wondering if
[This land was made for you and me.]

No Home

No Home

I Know These Woods

I Know These Woods

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