The railroads and the riverboats that bred the mighty men.
And we read about and we dream about the men who built this land.
And the farmers and the lumbermen and the men who work the mills,
And the poor hard working miners that died inside the hills.

While the rivers that flow are the blood of our land.
And the trucks that keep rumbling on the great concrete band.
And the railroads keep pushing to be all they once were,
And nature is calling, no one's listening to her.

While the immigrants by the boat-load, in a dozen different tongues
Sing of freedom in the new land, climb the ladder rung by rung.
Some to Boston, some to Pittsburgh, Philadelphia and St. Paul.
And the old ways, led to new days. They were welcome one and all.

While the rivers that flow are the blood of our land.
And the trucks that keep rumbling on the great concrete band.
And the railroads keep pushing to be all they once were,
And nature is calling, no one's listening to her.

With the railroads and the riverboats and the breadlines far behind.
And the days we sang together long gone, but still in mind.
And the men who came before us, men who brought us to today,
And the story still unravels from the dreams of yesterday.

While the rivers that flow are the blood of our land.
And the trucks that keep rumbling on the great concrete band.
And the railroads keep pushing to be all they once were,
And nature is calling, no one's listening to her.

And nature is calling, no one's listening to her.