Bob Dylan - I Pity The Poor Immigrant

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 who with his fingers cheats,
And who lies with every breath
Who passionately hates his life,
And likewise fears his death.

I pity the poor immigrant,
Who's strength is spend in vain,
Who's heaven is like ironsides,
Who's 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.
Who's visions in the final end
Must shatter like the glass,
I pity the poor immigrant
When his gladness comes to pass.