The crops are all in and the peaches are rotting,
the oranges are packed in their creosote dumps.
They're flying 'me back to the Mexico border,
to pay all your money to wade back again.
My father's own father, he waded that river,
they took all the money he made in his life.
My brothers and sisters came workin' the fruit trees,
they rode the trucks 'till they laid down and died.
Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye Rosalita,
adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria.
You won't have a name when you ride the big airplane,
and all they will call you will be "deportees."
Some of us are eager, and others not wanted,
a work contract's out, he he has to move on.
Six hundred miles to the Mexico border,
they chased us like outlaws, like wrestlers and thieves.
We died in your hills and we died on your deserts,
we died in your valleys, we died on your plains.
We died in your trees and we died in your bushes,
both sides of the river we died just the same.
The skyplane caught fire over Los Gatos Canyon,
a fireball of lightnin' an' it shook all the hills.
Who are these comrades, they're dying like the dry leaves?
The radio says, "They are just deportees."
Is this the best way we can grow our big orchards?
Is this the best way we can grow our good fruit?
To fall like the dry leaves and rot on your topsoil,
and be known by no name except "deportees."