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They gather in shadows with hands worn and bare
The ghosts of the harvest drifting on air
They toil in the twilight where no mercy is found
In fields overgrown where the lost souls drown
They wait for a whisper from fate's heavy hand
In a land of the struggling they make their stand
Dust on the boots and the weight in their hearts
What little they reap the dark harvest parts
The rich waltz in fancy to feast on their yield
But we call it the grave in this cursed field
They smile through the sorrow their eyes tell a tale
Of dreams turned to ashes of hopes gone pale
In the chill of the evening they gather once more
For only the dead know what lies at the door
They dance in the moonlight with shadows to keep
In the land full of heartache where the weary weep
Dust on the boots and the weight in their hearts
What little they reap the dark harvest parts
The rich waltz in fancy to feast on their yield
But we call it the grave in this cursed field
So pour out the whiskey let the stories unfold
They've toiled through the ages their fates are so old
With whispers of darkness they reckon the cost
In the dance of the reapers so many dreams lost
Dust on the boots and the weight in their hearts
What little they reap the dark harvest parts
The rich waltz in fancy to feast on their yield
But we call it the grave in this cursed field