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The crops are all in and the peaches are rott'ning.
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The oranges are piled in their creosote dumps.
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They're flying them back to the Mexico border
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To take all their money to wade back again.
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Chorus:
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Goodbye to my one, farewell Roselita,
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Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria.
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You won't have a name when you ride the big airplane.
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All they will call you is just deportee.
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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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It's six hundred miles to the Mexican border
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And they chased him like rustlers, like outlaws, like thieves.
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The airplane caught fire over Los Gatos Canyon,
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A great ball of fire that shook all the hills.
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Who are these friends who are falling like dry leaves?
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The radio said, "They're 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 raise our good crops?
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To fall like dry leaves and rot on our topsoil
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And be known by no name except deportee.
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(Chorus)
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|
-----
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-----------------
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DEPORTEE
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| Woody Guthrie/Martin Hoff |
