(Woody Guthrie/Martin Hoffman)
The crops are all in, the peaches are rotting
The oranges piled in their creosote dumps
They're flying us back to the Mexican border
To pay all our money just to wade back again
Some of us are illegal and some are not wanted
Our work contract's out and we have to move on
600 miles to that Mexican border
They chase us like outlaws, like thieves on the run
Goodbye to my Juan, good-bye Rosalita
Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria
You won't have a name when you...
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