| The crops are all in and the peaches are rotting
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| The oranges are piled in their creosote dumps
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| Flying us back to the Mexican border
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| Spend all our money to wade back again
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| Father’s own father, he waded that river
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| It took all the money he made in his life
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| My brothers and sisters come to work in the fruit trees
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| And they ride the trucks 'til they took down and died
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| Goodbye to my Juan
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| Goodbye Rosalita
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| Adios mis amigos
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| Jesus y Maria
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| You won’t have a name when you ride the big airplane
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| And all they will call you will be deportees
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| Some of us are illegal and others not wanted
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| Our work contract’s out and we’ve got to move on
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| Six hundred miles to the Mexican border
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| They chase us like outlaws, like rustlers, like thieves
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| We died in your hills and we died in your deserts
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| We died in your valleys, we died in your plains
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| We died 'neath your trees, we died in your oceans
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| Both sides of the river and we died just the same
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| Skyplane caught fire over Los Gatos canyon
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| A fireball of lightning, it shook all our hills
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| Who are these friends who are scattered like dry leaves
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| The radio says they are just deportees
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| Is this the best way we can grow big orchards?
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| Is this the best way we can grow our good fruit?
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| Scattered like dry leaves that rot on your topsoil
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| We’re known by no name except deportees |