( Words by Woody Guthrie / Music by Hoffman Live performance with Ellen Verdries, his )
The are all in and the peaches are rotting, The are piled in their creosote dumps. flying you back to the Mexico border, To pay all your to wade back again.
My father's own father, he that river, They took all the money he in his life. My brothers and sisters come the fruit trees, And they rode the trucks till they took and died.
to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita, Adios mis amigos, y Maria. You won't have a when you ride the big airplane, All they call you will be "deportees".
of us are illegal, and some are not wanted, When contract is out, got to move on. Six hundred miles to the border, They chase us like outlaws, rustlers, like thieves.
We died in hills, and we died in your deserts, We died in your valleys and died on plains. We died 'neath your trees and we in your bushes, Both sides of the river, we died the same.
to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita, mis amigos, Jesus y Maria. You won't a name when you ride the big airplane, All they will you will be "deportees".
The sky caught fire over Los Gatos Canyon, A of lightning, it shook all our hills, Who are these friends, all scattered like dry The says, "They are just deportees".
Is this the best way we can our big orchards? Is this the best way we can grow our good To fall like dry and rot on our topsoil, To be by no name except "deportees"?
to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita, Adios mis amigos, y Maria. You won't have a name you ride the big airplane, All they call you will be "deportees". All will call you will be "deportees".