They were called the Dirty Thirties
In middle America
The Black Blizzard could not be foreseen
But disaster are often hidden
In the memories of time
And the hopes of future days
Nightmare wrung from the dream
Of living upon the land
And by labors make it flourish
Where once the land was fair
And golden grains grew white
From the flower
For a century of
Unending labor
Breadbaskets became full
Under the sun
Happiness for the harvest
Turned to abject despair
Under growing sweat
The earth was broken
With no rain
The sun cooked the ground
Forlorn prayers
Unheard and unanswered
Despite the merit
Of the bowed bodies
Facing down
The darkness at midday
A catastrophic wind
The naked land
Exposed to the sins
Of exceeding the harvest
Ripped by the plowshare
Broken and bleeding
The land did not renew
And people fled
Of a season of death
In the devil's lair
Of Dust Bowl America
