| The crops are all in, the peaches are rotting
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| The oranges piled in their creosote dumps
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| They’re flying us back to the Mexican border
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| To pay all our money just to wade back again
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| Some of us are illegal and some are not wanted
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| Our work contract’s out and we have to move on
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| 600 miles to that Mexican border
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| They chase us like outlaws, like thieves on the run
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| Goodbye to my Juan, good-bye Rosalita
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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 will be deportee
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| The sky plane caught fire over Los Gatos canyon
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| A fireball of lightning that shook all the hills
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| Who are these friends now all scattered like dry leaves?
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| The radio says they are just deportees
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| We died in your hills, we died in your deserts
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| We died in your valleys and we died on your plains
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| We died 'neath your trees and we died in your bushes
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| Both sides of the river, we died just the same
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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 grow our good fruit?
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| To fall like dry leaves and to rot on the topsoil
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| And be called by no name except
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| Deportees? |