We are the calloused hands of agriculture
The sun burned neck of labor
The bruised heel of infrastructure
We are those who go without praise or applause 
Who wake up early 
And go to sleep late 
So that our sons and daughters have food on their plates 
We are hated for our pigment 
We are hated for our accent 
Pigeonholed as rapists and smugglers
But really, we do the **** pendejos would never do 
And we do it with pride on our sleeves
And love in our hearts 
Because sometimes our families are countries apart 
We take jobs that are not glamorous 
And let racists hammer us 
And use that hammer to sustain our families