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