Shuddering his wife lay, hid in her bed
As in fever her man rushed to the press
Grapes cryed and shrieked in the crush
His vine of rage, are the Grapes of Wrath
His vine of rage
♪
Carts of iron rattled through his fields
Fish of steel had clogged his well
Time is harvest
Time to harvest now he spoke
His vine of rage are the Grapes of Wrath
His vine of rage
Are the Grapes they've been sown, become the seeds, which become his Wrath
♪
Ah, child, it's not a rave or a game