I'm on the border of Bolivia, working for pennies Treated like a slave, the coca fields have to be ready The spirit of my people is starving, broken, and sweaty Dreaming about revolution looking at my machete But the workload is too heavy to rise up in arms And if I ran away, I know they'd probably murder my moms So I pray to Jesu Cristo when I go to the mission Process the cocaine paste, and play my position

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