| The crops are all in and the peaches are rotting
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| The oranges are packed in their creosote dumps
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| They’re flying 'em back to that Mexico border
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| To take all their money to wade back again
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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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| My brothers and sisters come working the fruit trees
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| They rode the big trucks till they lay down and died
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| CHORUS
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| Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye 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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| And all they will call you will be deportee
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| Some of us are illegal, and all are not wanted
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| Our work contract’s out and we’ve got to move on Six hundred miles to that Mexican border
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| They chase us like outlaws, like rustlers, like thieves
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| We died in your hills, we died in your deserts
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| We died in your armies, we died on your plains
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| We died 'neath your trees and we died 'neath those bushes
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| Both sides of that river, we died just the same
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| CHORUS
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| The sky plane caught fire over Los Gatos Canyon
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| Like a fireball of lightning, it shook all our hills
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| Who are all these friends, dying 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 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 rot on my topsoil
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| And be known by no name except deportee
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| CHORUS |