Lyrics by Woody Guthrie
|
Music by Martin Hoffman
|
|
The crops are all in and the peaches are rotting
|
The oranges are piled in their cresote dumps
|
They're flying you back to the Mexico border
|
To pay all your money to wade back again
|
|
My father's own father, he wanted that river
|
They took all the money he made in his life
|
My brothers and sisters come working the fruit trees
|
And they rode the truck till they took down and died
|
|
CHORUS
|
Good-bye to my Juan, good-bye Rosalita
|
Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maris
|
You won't have a name when you ride the big air-plane
|
And all they will call you will be deportees.
|
|
Some of us are illega, and others not wanted
|
Our work contract's out and we have to move on
|
But it's six hundred miles to that Mexican border
|
They chase us like outlaws, like rustlers, like theives.
|
|
We died in your hills, we died in your deserts
|
We died in your valleys and died on your plains
|
We died 'neath your trees and we died in your bushes
|
Both sides of the river, we died just the same.
|
|
CHORUS
|
|
A sky plane caught fire over Los Gatos canyon
|
Like a fireball of lightning, it shook all our hills
|
Who are all these friends, all scattered like 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 dry leaves to rot on my topsoil
|
And be called by no name except deportees?
|
|
-----------------
|
Deportees (Plane Wreck at Los Gatos)
|
| Arlo Guthrie |
