Thursday, 14 May 2009



by Woody Guthrie

The crops are all in and the peaches are rotting

The oranges are filed in their creosote dumps

They're flying 'em back to the Mexico border

To take all their money to wade back again

Goodbye to my Juan, farewell Roselita

Adios mes amigos, Jesus e 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

They took all the money he made in his life

It's six hundred miles to the Mexico border

And they chased them like rustlers, like outlaws, like thieves

The skyplane caught fire over Los Gatos Canyon

The great ball of fire it shook all our hills

Who are these dear friends who are falling like dry leaves?

Radio said, "They are just deportees"

Is this the best way we can grow our big orchards?

Is this the best way we can raise our good crops?

To fall like dry leaves and rot on out topsoil

And be known by no names except "deportees"

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