Am ,                 Dm ,      G ,            Am ,          Dm ,       G ,                        Am , 
Shuddering his wife lay, hid in her bed.  As in fever her man rushed to the press,

                          Dm ,      G ,       Am ,        Dm7 ,  Am ,              Dm7 ,       Am ,
grapes cryed and shrieked in the crush, his vine of rage, are the Grapes of Wrath,

Dm7 ,       Am ,  E.  Am ,     Dm , G ,                      Am ,            Dm ,        G ,            Am ,
His vine of rage,   Carts of iron rattled through his field, fish of steel had clogged his well,

           Dm ,      G ,                              Am ,        Dm7 ,          Am ,           Dm7 , Am ,
time is harvest, time to harvest now he spoke.    His vines of rage are the Grapes of Wrath,

Dm7 ,          Am , E ,                                                                   Am , G , F , 
His vines of rage are the Grapes that become, the seeds of his Wrath.


Am , G , F , 
And he learned, as he sows , so shall he reap.
Am , G , F , 
Am , G , F , 
Ah child its not a rave or a game,    Give us back our land