WINDSWEPT HILLS awash with dust
Broklahoma bank and trust
Foreclosed on their empty hands
Breaking down the gates of legal plunder
Thompson guns were made to tear asunder
Greed and gluttony was their blunder
Now the downcast are the ones who run the show
Straw bosses are down
Huffed and puffed like clowns
Slandering around
Lamenting their fading
Landlords the real criminals
The real robbers are the ones who
Bleed the working until they’re dry
Sympathy lies with him
Dillinger a social escape man
Blood soaked hills awash with death
Starving wretched furied hands
Dug his way from out the sands
All he wants to be is a farmer
In his hands a gun and he’s a charmer
Reaching down through years he’s no one’s martyr
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