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The crops are all in and the lettuce is rotting |
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The oranges are pilled in there Creosote dumps |
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They're flying 'em back to that Mexican border |
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To pay all their money and wade back again |
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My father's own father, he waded that river |
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They took all the money he made in his life |
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My brothers and sisters came working the fruit trees |
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They rode on their truck till they lay down and die |
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Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye Rosalita |
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Adios mis amigos, Jesus and Maria |
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You won't have a name when you ride the big airplane |
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And all they will call you will be deportees |
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Some of us are illegal and others not wanted |
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Our work contracts out and we've got to move on |
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It's six hundred miles to that Mexican border |
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They chase us like outlaws, like rustlers, like thieves |
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We've died on your hills and we've died on your deserts |
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We've died in your valleys, we've died in your plains |
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We've died 'neath your trees and we've died in your bushes |
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Both sides of that river, we've died just the same |
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Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye Rosalita |
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Adios mis amigos, Jesus and Maria |
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You won't have a name 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, it shook all our hills |
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Who are these chikanos all scattered like dry leaves |
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The radio tells us they're just deportees |
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Is this the best way we can grow our good 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 and rot on your top soil |
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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 and Maria |
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You won't have a name when you ride the big airplane |
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And all they will call you will be deportees |
