Some of us are illegal, and some are not wanted ...
They chase us like outlaws, like
rustlers, like thieves.
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.
... Who are all these friends, all
scattered like dry leaves?
The radio says, "They are just
deportees."
