Five cents a basket won't do.
The fan belt, shredded, is through.
Cops with pick handles go where they will.
No one in the house can eat their fill.
Hope is somewhere on down the road.
The road, itself, is not a friend of Joad.
He's got to make a truce and walk along.
His only saving grace is being strong.
What is the way for those who are just weak?
Those whose radiators always leak,
Who cannot pick the quota though they try,
And find no sympathy each time they cry?
Those are the ones who seek a place.
Just a spot, a shaded seat where they find grace.
Weak or strong, the road is cruel.
On the move you can't trust any rule.
The rambling way is freedom of a sort,
But only from, not freedom for.
We listen to the gossip for report
Where profit from our labor is secure.
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