The sun rose over Homestake in the early morning fog,
A man got off a train bound straight for glory,
With a red card in his pocket and a fire in his eye,
Frank Little was his name and this his story.

My name is Sean McKinley and I work down in the mines,
Trading waking hours for blood and sweat and sorrow,
Digging copper for the bosses while they throw us naught but dimes,
And praying that we see the sun tomorrow.

Not two weeks ago we put my cousin in the ground,
He burned alongside a hundred of his brothers,
Against the doorless bulkheads of the Speculator Mine,
They probably died calling for their mothers.

Frank Little walked into the town and made his reason known,
He's a Wobbly that has been sent from Chicago,
He's organized the workers from the mountains to the sea,
And he's here to fight for you and fight for me.

The lumber camps out in Missoula to the quaries of Spokane,
The oil fields to the dock boys of Wisconsin,
Even the migrant workers on the California farms,
He organized and inspired his fellow man.

We're gonna' strike! We're gonna' strike!
We're gonna' strike like you've never struck before,
From the mines up to the shops we're gonna' pull out all the stops
And we'll never fight alone forevermore,
You're a Worker of the World forevermore.

He stood with us through the beatings from the Company's hired men,
'Till the picket line stretched on a hundred thousand,
Side by side we made a promise, we would not be slaves again,
Deafening the bosses with our howling.

The workers, Little told, are worth a thousand years in gold,
We were never meant to bleed for bread and roses,
You can't give up this fight, hold the picket through the night,
Workers of the World, unite! Unite!

In the early August morning they kicked in Frankie's door,
And drug him naked out into the street.
These yellow bastards tortured him, Company men and Pinkertons,
They tied him up and knocked him off his feet.

The sun rose over Homestake in the early morning fog,
A mountain wind went whistling through the trees,
Frank Little swung there gently from the Milwaukee bridge,
A noose 'round his neck, blood running from his knees.

They thought they'd break the strike if they took Frank Little's life,
But the Company was gravely mistaken,
From Haymarket to Montana is a sea of red bandannas,
And the breath of revolution can't be taken.

One hundred thousand lined the streets in the early August heat,
To watch Little pay his Martyr's Union Due.
Killed for capitalist gain, we remember him by name,
Organizing and Inspiring me and you.

We're gonna' Strike! We're gonna' Strike!
We're gonna' Strike like we've never struck before.
We fought a thousand years alone, we stared down death all on our own,
But we'll never stand alone forevermore.
We're the Workers of the World forevermore.