| Wettin' it down, boss
 | 
| Wet it down
 | 
| Wipin' it off, boss
 | 
| Wipe it off
 | 
| Doin' ten to twenty hard
 | 
| Swingin' twelve pounds in the yard
 | 
| Every day
 | 
| Every day
 | 
| I came in with a group of twenty
 | 
| There ain’t left but half as many
 | 
| In the clay
 | 
| In the clay
 | 
| Long line rider, turn away
 | 
| There’s a farm in Arkansas
 | 
| Got some secrets in its floor
 | 
| In decay
 | 
| In decay
 | 
| You can tell where they’re at
 | 
| Nothin' grows, the ground is flat
 | 
| Where they lay
 | 
| Where they lay
 | 
| Long line rider, turn away
 | 
| All the records show so clear
 | 
| Not a single man was here
 | 
| Anyway
 | 
| Anyway
 | 
| That’s the tale the warden tells
 | 
| As he counts his empty shells
 | 
| By the day
 | 
| By the day
 | 
| Hey, long line rider, turn away
 | 
| Someone screams investigate
 | 
| Excuse me, sir, it’s a little late
 | 
| Let us pray
 | 
| Let us pray
 | 
| This kinda thing can’t happen here
 | 
| 'specially not in an election year
 | 
| Outta my way
 | 
| Outta my way
 | 
| Hey, long line rider, turn away
 | 
| There’s a funny taste in the air
 | 
| Big bulldozers everywhere
 | 
| Diggin' clay
 | 
| Turnin' clay
 | 
| And the ground coughs up some roots
 | 
| Wearin' denim shirts and boots
 | 
| Haul 'em away
 | 
| Haul 'em away
 | 
| Hey, long line rider, turn away
 | 
| Well I heard a brother moan
 | 
| Why they plowin' up my home
 | 
| In this way
 | 
| In this way
 | 
| I said, buddy, shake your gloom
 | 
| They’re just here to make more room
 | 
| In the clay |