It was early in the morning in old Mexico.
The sun was rising high on the ridge.
Wake up little boy, it’s time to go.
Working for the farm is how we live.
The grass is cold in a field all alone.
Your hands they get tired to the bone.
Five cents and hour ain’t no wage,
but you learn to love the ways that don’t change.
When your Momma is an aparcero,
then your Daddy he’s one too,
they all want the same from you.
I don’t mind the smell of the ground in the Spring.
Or picking with the birds as they sing.
I don’t mind the dusty days and I don’t mind the rain,
so you learn you learn to love the ways that don’t change.
I remember mi Abuela, she was old as the sun,
and worn as a hard day when it’s done.
She always made her bed, she kept our family fed,
and wore and open heart for everyone.
It seems like yesterday, she was holding on,
now how I miss her that she’s gone.
I still see her standing in that old familiar way.
How you learn to love the ways that don’t change.
So roll up them tortillas, start soaking down them beans.
Stoke up that old stove, start cooking down them greens.
Pour a little wine, when you’re on siesta time.
Pull down that guitar, pick up your tired feet.
Laughing at the sunset, going out over the range,
You learn to love the ways that don’t change.
You learnt o love the ways that don’t change.