Words by Woody Guthrie
Music by The Byrds

The crops are all in and the peaches are rotting,
The oranges piled in their creosote dumps;
They're flying 'em back to the Mexican border
To spend all their money to wade back again

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

Some of us are illegal, and others are not wanted,
Our work contract's out and we have to move on;
Six hundred miles to that Mexican border,
They chase us like outlaws, [bad word]  like thieves.

My father's own father, he waded that river,
They took all the money he made in his life;
My brothers and [bad word] working the [bad word] trees,
And they rode the [bad word] till they took down and died.

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

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 and we died in your bushes,
Both sides of the river, we died just the same.

The sky plane caught fire over Los Gatos Canyon,
fireball of lightning, and shook all our hills,
Who are all 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 [bad word]  
To fall like dry leaves to rot on my topsoil
And be called by no name except "deportees"?