| Lyrics: | by Bob Dylan
I pity the poor immigrant
Who wishes he would've stayed home,
Who
uses all his power to do evil
But in the end is always left so alone.
That man whom with
his fingers cheats
And who lies with ev'ry breath,
Who passionately hates his
life
And likewise, fears his death.
I pity the poor immigrant
Whose strength is
spent in vain,
Whose heaven is like Ironsides,
Whose tears are like rain,
Who eats
but is not satisfied,
Who hears but does not see,
Who falls in love with wealth
itself
And turns his back on me.
I pity the poor immigrant
Who tramples through
the mud,
Who fills his mouth with laughing
And who builds his town with blood,
Whose
visions in the final end
Must shatter like the glass.
I pity the poor immigrant
When
his gladness comes to pass |
