| Mom and Dad have worked the fields
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| I don’t know how many years
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| I’m just a boy but I know how
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| And go to school when work is slow
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| We have seen our country’s roads
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| Bakersfield to Illinois
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| And when troubles come our way
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| Oh yeah, I’ve seen my daddy pray
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| There’s something wrong with little sister
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| I hear her crying by my side
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| Mama’s shaking as she holds her
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| We try to hold her through the night
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| And Mom says, ?Close you eyes, mijito
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| Dream of someplace far from here
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| Like the pictures in your schoolbooks
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| Someday you can take us there?
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| There must be something in the rain
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| I’m not sure just what that means
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| Abuelita talks of sins of man
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| Of dust that’s in our hands
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| There must be something in the rain
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| Well, what else could cause this pain
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| Those airplanes cure the plants so things can grow
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| Oh no, it must be something in the rain
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| Little sister’s gone away
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| Mama’s working long again
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| And me, I think I understand
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| About our life, about our land
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| Well, talkers talk and dreamers dream
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| I will find a place between |
| I’m afraid but I believe
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| That we can change these hurting fields
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| 'Cause there’s something in the rain
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| But there’s more here in our hands
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| 'Buelita's right about the sins of man
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| Who’s profits rape the land
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| And the rains are pouring down
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| From the growers to the towns
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| And until we break the killing chains
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| There’s something in the rain |