The world is filled with people who are no longer needed. And who try to make slaves of all of us. And they have their music and we have ours. Theirs, the wasted songs of a superstitious nightmare. And without their music and ideological miscarriages to compare our songs of freedom to, we'd not have any opposite to compare music with - - and like the drifting wind, hitting against no obstacle, we'd never know its speed, its power.

This land is your land, this land is my land

A song ain't nothing but a conversation fixed up to where you can talk it over and over without getting tired of it.

All of you cowboys, fight for your land.

The world is filled with people who are no longer needed -- and who try to make slaves of all of us -- and they have their music and we have ours.

All about a human being is, it's a great big hoping machine.

I ain't a communist necessarily, but I been in the red all my life.