Blues had the pulse beat of the people who keep on going.
The rhythm of life is a jazz rhythm
It's such a Bore Being always Poor.
Gather up In the arms of your love—Those who expect No love from above.
Gather out of star-dust, Earth-dust, Cloud-dust, Storm-dust, And splinters of hail, One handful of dream-dust, Not for sale.
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on.