The crops are all in and the peaches are rotting, Oranges are piled in their creosote dumps. They're flying them back to the Mexican Border. To pay all their money to wade back again. Goodbye to my Juan, farewell Rosanita, Adios mes amigos, Jesu et Maria. You won't have a name when you ride the big airplane All they will call you will be deportees. My father's own father he waded that river, Spent all the money he'd made in his life. My brothers and sisters are working your fruit trees, And they rode the truck till they laid down and died. The airplane caught fire over Los Gatos canyon, A fireball of lightning that shook all our hills, Who are these friends who are scattered like dry leaves? Radio says they are `just deportees'. Some of us are illegal ,and some are not wanted, Our work contracts out and we have to move on, Six hundred miles to the Mexico border, They chase us like outlaws, like rustlers, like thieves. 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, we died in your bushes, Both sides of the river, we died just the same. Is this the best way we can farm our great orchards? Is this the best way we can pick our fresh fruit? Employing cheap labour from over the border, Labour the radio calls deportees.