by Woody Guthrie


The crops are all in, and the peaches are rotting, The oranges are piled in their creseote dumps, You're flying them back to the Mexico border To pay all their money to wade back again. Chorus: Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye Rosalita, Adios mis amigos, Jesus and Maria. You won't have a name when you ride the big airplane, And all they will call you will be deportee. 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 They rode the truck till they took down and died. Chorus: Some of us are illegal and some are not wanted, Our work contracts out and we have to move on. Six hundred miles to that Mexico border, They chase us like outlaws, and rustlers, and thieves. Chorus: 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, we died in your bushes, Both sides of the river, we died just the same. Chorus: The skyplane caught fire over Los Gatos Canyon, A fireball of lightning, it scarred all our hills, Who are these friends all scattered like dry leaves? The radio says they are just deportees. Chorus: Is this the best way we can grow our big orchards? Is the is the best way we can grow our good fruit? To fall like dry leaves, to rot on the topsoil, And be known by no name except deportee?