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Mm, yeah When you're dead-broke, pushin' pallets In the dusty aisles of a cinder block tomb 'Til your back is stove up, your coughs are black And your thoughts are frayed You can call on the Magic City outlaws Drop-forged in this smog-choked valley Who scrapped with the Big Mules and the gun thugs and the scabs For their honor and their share of pay Oh, children, in the concrete and pines Workin' with our hands and on our feet Oh, children, holdin' that holy old line In remembrance of the forty-hour week When you're rent-strapped, threadin' symbols Through the pale rows of a flickerin' screen 'Til your wrists are trashed, your mind is static And your eyes are stung You can call on the Etowah outlaws Who worked and spun their fingers raw, boy Who walked out of red-brick caves along the fallin' waters And into the light of a brand new day Oh, children, in the concrete and pines Letras de cancionesWorkin' with our hands and on our feet Oh, children, holdin' that holy old line In remembrance of the forty-hour week In remembrance of the forty-hour week Seems like lately, we get up To go to work, get ready for work We head to work and we work 'Til we get off work, then we take it to the house from work Hit the kitchen and we get to work, we talk about work We worry about work, we dream about it When you're dog-sick, snatchin' plates From the greasy jaws of this greedy Post-Life The quicker you rush 'em out, the quicker it gobbles 'em up You gather what it spills You can call on the Tallapoosa outlaws Burnt their necks stooped to the Black Belt soil Raised hammer and hoe to the landlords Hollerin', "God's people shall eat of our own fields" Shall eat of our own fields Oh, children, in the concrete and pines Workin' with our hands and on our feet Oh, children, holdin' that holy old line In remembrance of the forty-hour week In remembrance of the forty-hour week In remembrance of the forty-hour week Oh Yeah From Letras Mania