As we go marching, marching, in the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lots gray
Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses
For the people hear us singing: bread and roses, bread and roses.

As we go marching, marching, we battle, too, for men,
For they are women's children and we march with them again.
Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;
Hearts starve as well bodies; give us bread but give us roses.


There ya go, Art.