Shall we get our fair share of abuse today 
in this flyover town, my hands stained with 
ink and it’s pouring down rain, is a protest 
like a ballgame postponed on account of the 
weather, shall we ask the first weathermen 
which way the wind blows? The tools of the 
laborer abandoned on the ground, the half-full 
bushels left in the field, do we run with them 
like wolves in a pack, like a stampede of 
mustangs, who gets to call this place home? 
From whom was it taken, to whom is it owed? 
I have my banjo tuned to the people’s key, 
can you tell me, what would Woody do?