The crops are all in the peaches are rotting,
The oranges are piled in their creosote 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 waded 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 trucks till they took down and died.

CHORUS:

Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita,
Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria;
You won't have a name when you ride the big airplane,
And All they will call you will be "deportees"

Some of us are illegal, and others not wanted,
I work contract's out and we have to move on;
Six hundred miles to the Mexico border,
They chase us like outlaws, like rustlers, and thieves.

We died in your hills, and we died on your deserts,
We died in your valleys we died on your plains.
We died in your trees and we died in your bushes,
Both sides of the river, we died just the same.

CHORUS:

Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita,
Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria;
You won't have a name when you ride the big airplane,
And all they will call you will be "deportees"

The sky plane caught fire over Los Gatos Canyon,
Like a fireball of lightning, it shook all our hills,
and who are 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 and rot on your topsoil
And be known by no name except "deportees"

CHORUS:

Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita,
Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria;
You won't have a name when you ride the big airplane,
All they will call you will be "deportees"

See also:
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