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