fields of melons green striped

in view tomatoes tinted hue of red

this day we'll pick under the blazing sun

straw hats to shade pates full and bare

skin tanned dark, turned leathery

from years of toil in summer heat

this job sure as hell, ain't neat

before the sun stands high in the noon sky

I'm weary, wet and beat

water nor cola quench my thirst

from this day's endless dusty dry

sweat like a pig, smell like one too

twenty-five of us in this labor group

empty baskets piled high at row's end

three hundred acres or more 'til we're done

not to wonder my back creaks, aches

I feel like a trained ant

pullin fruit from the plants

to myself I ask the same question each day

Lord, can't some of these baskets

fill themselves, while I seek respite

yonder, neath that tall lonely old oak

we are all of us, tired, weary folk

this pickin job's nothing but a terrible joke

around our necks are clamped

the invisible yokes of peasant folks