I'd like to do a song this time.
Very, very few songs that I do that are not
But this one is one of the exceptions,
one of the few exceptions.
It's a song written by the late, great
About the fruit pickers coming from
Mexico to pick the fruit in
The crops are all in the peaches
They're flying them back to the
It will take all their money
So farewell to my friends, goodbye
Adios mis amigos, you're the same
You won't have a name when
you fly the big aeroplane
All they will call you will be deportees
The sky plane could fire over
The fireball lit up, it shook the hills round
Oh, who are most friends who
are scattered like dry leaves
The radio said they were just deportees
So farewell to my friends, goodbye
Adios mis amigos, you're the same
You won't have a name when
you fly the big aeroplane
All they will call you will be deportees
Is this the best way to till
Is this the best way we can
To lie on the ground and to
So farewell to my friends, goodbye
Adios, mis amigos, you're the same
You won't have a name when
All they will call you will
Some of us were illegal and
Our work contracts finished,
It's six hundred miles to the
They chase us like rustlers, like outlaws,
So farewell to my friends, goodbye
When you fly the big airplane