(Deportee)
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The crops are all in and the peaches are rott'ning,
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The oranges piled in their creosote dumps;
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They're flying 'em back to the Mexican border
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To pay all their money to wade back again
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Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita,
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Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria;
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You won't have your names when you ride the big airplane,
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All they will call you will be "deportees"
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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 come working the fruit trees,
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And they rode the truck till they took down and died.
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Some of us are illegal, and some are not wanted,
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Our work contract's out and we have to move on;
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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 died in your hills, we died in your deserts,
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We died in your valleys and died on your plains.
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We died 'neath your trees and we died in your bushes,
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Both sides of the river, we died just the same.
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The sky plane caught fire over Los Gatos Canyon,
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A fireball of lightning, and shook all our hills,
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Who are all these friends, all scattered like dry leaves?
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The radio says, "They are 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 grow our good fruit?
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To fall like dry leaves to rot on my topsoil
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And be called by no name except "deportees"?
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Plane Wreck At Los Gatos
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| Woody Guthrie |
