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I Pity The Poor Immigrant
par
Bob Dylan
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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 lovе 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
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