A Hard Worker, Our Farmhand

In the willows, in the moonlight,
In the willows, in the wind,
Lay the immigrant in hiding—
Guilty of being too brown-skinned.

The ICE agents combed the swampland,
Looking for the brown-skinned man.
He lay low, he lay quiet—
Our farm worker, our farmhand.

Come dawn, ICE gave up,
Unable to find the migrant man.
And he returned to work the fields—
A hard worker, our farmhand.