All of you cowboys, fight for your land.
This land is made for you and me.
A song ain’t nothing but a conversation fixed up to where you can talk it over and over without getting tired of it.
It’s round the world I’ve traveled; it’s round the world I’ve roamed; but I’ve yet to see an outlaw drive a family from its home.
I worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes. I slept on the ground in the light of the moon. On the edge of the city you’ll see us and then, we come with the dust and we go with the wind.
My eyes has been my camera taking pictures of the world and my songs has been my messages that I tried to scatter across the back sides and along the steps of the fire escapes and on the window sills and through the dark halls...
I know the police cause you trouble They cause trouble everywhere But when you die and go to heaven You find no policeman there.
If you want to learn something, just steal it.
Uncle Sam took up the challenge in the year of ‘33 For the farmer and the factory and all of you and me. He said, “Roll along Columbia. You can ramble to the sea, But river while you’re ramblin’ you can do some work for me.”
Let me be known as just the man that told you something you already knew.
Now as through this world I ramble, I see lots of funny men, Some rob you with a six gun, And some with a fountain pen.
This machine kills fascists.
All you can write is what you see.
If you walk across my camera I will flash the world your story.
As I went walking That ribbon of highway I saw above me The endless skyway I saw below me The lonesome valley This land was made for you and me.
I like to write about wherever I happen to be.
All about a human being is, it’s a great big hoping machine.
Nobody living can ever stop me. As I go walking my freedom highway. Nobody living can make me turn back. This land was made for you and me.
This land is your land, this land is my land.
I have decided long ago that my songs and ballads would not get the hugs and kisses of the capitalistic experts.