I was born on a farm, a midwestern farm
I rode on the tractor with my dad
And though we never had much
it was always enough
And we made the best with what we had
But then came four years of drought and the bottom dropped out
My father was broken like the rest
And I can still see his hands signing over his lands
And the bankers grow fat on the flesh of the dispossessed

Certain things that you depend upon
There are places I can go
I sift the ashes of America
For someplace I used to know...

--Dan Fogelberg, River of Souls: Faces Of America