OH I am of the people!
the people, the people!
Oh I am of the
people
and proud of
my descent.
And the people always love me,
they love me, they love
me,
the people
always love me,
in
spite of my ascent.
You must admit I’ve risen
I’ve risen, I’ve risen,
you must admit I’ve
risen
above the
common run.
The middle classes hate it,
they hate it, they hate it
the middle classes hate
it
and want to put
me down.
But the people always love me
they love me, they love
me,
the people
always love me
because I’ve risen clean.
Therefore I know the people
the people, the people
are still in bud, and
eager
to flower free
of fear.
And so I sing a democracy
a democracy, a democracy
that puts forth its own
aristocracy
like
bearded wheat in ear.
Oh golden fields of people
of people, of people,
oh golden field of
people
all moving
into flowers.
No longer at the mercy
the mercy, the mercy
of middle-class
mowing-machines, and
the middle-class money power.