The crops are all in and the peaches are rott’ning,

The oranges piled in their creosote dumps,

You’re flying ’em back to the Mexican border;

To pay all their money to wade back again.

Good-bye to my Juan, good-bye Rosalita,

Adiós, mis amigos, Jesús y María,

You won’t have a name when you ride the big airplane,

All they will call you will be deportees.

—From “Deportee” by Woody Guthrie