I wonder what're the riches doing
Are the benefited away from the mud
Keeping the poor hands off the clay
As the hard work suggests you can be moulded
By the very substance, you try to command
I suppose as a house you an occupation
Of giving us shelter from the storm
Wasting the worker's man in the toil and work
The workingman's dead and he keeps wanting more
Earning a couple of bucks, to hold a shack full of comforts
Of the simple life that provides
Without salvation
I think you'd dead
Come here before you get better with the days
Come here, she said I'll give you shelter from the storm