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The crops are all in and the peaches are rott'ning, |
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The oranges piled in their creosote dumps; |
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You're flying 'em back to the Mexican border |
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To pay all their money 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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Six hundred miles to that Mexican border, |
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They chase us like outlaws, like rustlers, like thieves. |
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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 your names when you ride the big airplane, |
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And all they will call you will be "deportees" |
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We died in your hills, and we died in your deserts, |
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We died in your valleys and 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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Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita, |
|
Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria; |
|
You won't have your names when you ride the big airplane, |
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And all they will call you will be "deportees" |
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The sky plane caught fire over Los Gatos Canyon, |
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A fireball of lightning, and shook all our hills, |
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Who are all these friends, all 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 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 to rot on my topsoil |
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And be called by no name except "deportees"? |
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Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita, |
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Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria; |
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Goodbye Goodbye~ |
