Grapes of Wrath

Shuddering his wife lay, hid in her bed As in fever her man rushed to the press Grapes cryed and shrieked in the crush His vine of rage, are the Grapes of Wrath His vine of rage Carts of iron rattled through his fields Fish of steel had clogged his well Time is harvest Time to harvest now he spoke His vine of rage are the Grapes of Wrath His vine of rage Are the Grapes they've been sown, become the seeds, which become his Wrath Ah, child, it's not a rave or a game