I see the tourists, Vanzetti,
Around your Plymouth's Rock;
Black glasses, sun goggles, stain'd glasses,
Smoked glasses to block out the light.
O see them come here as you seen them,
But I see lots more than you saw;
I see them in fast running-cars,
You seen them in wagons and carts.
These tourists don't see you, Vanzetti,
These salesmen and gamblers on tour.
Your footprints are dim and your trail is sprung weeds.
Their tourist map don't show you there.
The trade union workers, Vanzetti,
Will vacation here, and we'll tour
This Rock and this town and Plymouth around
When their statues have souls like yours.
Your picture is painted, Vanzetti,
Your words are carved 'round the frames;
Your songs and your poems,
your working folks' dreams,
Will flame with our greatest of names.
Your name I will paint on my pointers,
My streets, my mountains, my shops;
Your hopes that you hoped, dreams that you dreamed
I'll see that your works never stop.
Those talks for the workers, Vanzetti,
I'll chisel them down on the rocks;
I'll tell every worker to fight you fought,
Like the Pilgrims that docked on this rock.
I'll scatter your words on my waters
To the ships, to the fishes, the gulls;
I'll cast your fish cart in metals so fine,
And I'll push around this world.