The crops are all in and the peaches are rott'ning
The oranges piled in their creosote dumps;
They're flying 'em back to the Mexican border
To pay all their money to wade back again
Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita
Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria;
You won't have your names when you ride the big airplane
All they will call you will be "deportees"
My father's own father, he waded that river
They took all the money he made in his life;
My brothers and sisters come working the fruit trees
And they rode the truck till they took down and died
Some of us are illegal, and some are not wanted
Our work contract's out and we have to move on;
Six hundred miles to that Mexican border
They chase us like outlaws, like rustlers, like thieves
We died in your hills, we died in your deserts
We died in your valleys and died on your plains
We died 'neath your trees and we died in your bushes
Both sides of the river, we died just the same
The sky plane caught fire over Los Gatos Canyon
A fireball of lightning, and shook all our hills
Who are all these friends, all scattered like dry leaves?
The radio says, "They are just deportees"
Is this the best way we can grow our big orchards?
Is this the best way we can grow our good fruit?
To fall like dry leaves to rot on my topsoil
And be called by no name except "deportees"?
The oranges piled in their creosote dumps;
They're flying 'em back to the Mexican border
To pay all their money to wade back again
Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita
Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria;
You won't have your names when you ride the big airplane
All they will call you will be "deportees"
My father's own father, he waded that river
They took all the money he made in his life;
My brothers and sisters come working the fruit trees
And they rode the truck till they took down and died
Some of us are illegal, and some are not wanted
Our work contract's out and we have to move on;
Six hundred miles to that Mexican border
They chase us like outlaws, like rustlers, like thieves
We died in your hills, we died in your deserts
We died in your valleys and died on your plains
We died 'neath your trees and we died in your bushes
Both sides of the river, we died just the same
The sky plane caught fire over Los Gatos Canyon
A fireball of lightning, and shook all our hills
Who are all these friends, all scattered like dry leaves?
The radio says, "They are just deportees"
Is this the best way we can grow our big orchards?
Is this the best way we can grow our good fruit?
To fall like dry leaves to rot on my topsoil
And be called by no name except "deportees"?