Can you hear my gritos like I'm a free man!
But you don't. They keep me down, isn't that their plan?
I work hard everyday; I slave over their lands,
I'm not branded like a horse, the scares tell the stories on my hands.
You see, I got that one close to my finger tips working on my tractor,
If I didn't get the job done they would replace me. I didn't want to face that factor.
I look at my hands and see my life's work,
But I see one I don't remember. How did I get that one that made my hand at one time hurt?
Thinking back, I remember what I had done.
I beat this vato down, he wasn't where I was from.
I was in a gang and I was down for mine.
I was young then and didn't know what I was doing at the time.
I was never taught about heroes like Villa or Zapata.
I learned I had to fight or even kill, o me mata.
In school they filled me up with facts of the whites, not my gente.
I needed to find out who I was before they took over my mente.
I did some soul searching and opened my eyes,
I realized my head was full of lies.
They are mad that I woke up and stopped pointing my gun,
Well, actually I didn't. It's pointed at them, and they see it's not fun.
I inform my carnales that we need to unite.
Stop this nonsense and not fight.
We need to mend our ways and make it right.
Let them profile us; low riders, spics, cholo, gangsters with panos.
You tell them,"NO! SOMOS MEXICANOS!"
Take pride in yourself like what i have learned to do.
It's not easy but i have faith i you.