I pity the poor immigrant
Who wished he'd stayed home
Who uses all his power to do evil
And in the end is always left alone

Like men who with his fingers cheats
And who lies with every breath
Who passionately hate his life
And likewise fears his death

I pity the poor immigrant
Who's strength is all in vain
Who's heaven is like iron sides
Who's tears fall like rain

Who eats but is not satisfied
Who hears but does not see
Who falls in love with wealth and self
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

Who visions it may finally end
Must shatter like the glass
I pity the poor immigrant
Who his gladness comes surpass.

Copyright: Universal Music Publishing Group
Writer(s): Bob Dylan