| The crops are all in and the peaches are rott’ning
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| The oranges are piled in their creosote dumps
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| They’re flying them back to the Mexico border
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| To take all their money to wade back again
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| Goodbye to my Juan, farewell Roselita
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| Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria
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| You won’t have a name when you ride the big airplane
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| All they will call you is just deportee
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| My father’s own father, he waded that river
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| They took all the money he made in his life
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| It’s six hundred miles to the Mexican border
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| And they chased him like rustlers, like outlaws, like thieves
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| The airplane caught fire over Los Gatos Canyon
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| A great ball of fire that shook all the hills
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| Who are these friends who are falling like dry leaves?
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| The radio said, «They're just deportees.»
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| Is this the best way we can grow our big orchards?
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| Is this the best way we can raise our good crops?
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| To fall like dry leaves and rot on our topsoil
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| And be known by no name except deportee
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| Goodbye to my Juan, farewell Roselita
|
| Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria
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| You won’t have a name when you ride the big airplane
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| All they will call you is just deportee |