| In a town in southernmost sicily
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| Lived a family too proud to be poor
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| In the year that fever took father away
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| They hastened for american shores
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| Now a mother and her son are standing in line
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| It’s a cold day on ellis isle
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| And they look to the statue of liberty
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| For the boy we have american life
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| Ong is a laotian refugee
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| He works in the audio trade
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| The smoke from flux is filling his lungs
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| He’s earning minimum wage
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| Spending spare time down on San pablo ave
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| Once a week gets a woman for the night
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| And he writes home tales of prosperity
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| For the boy we have american life
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| Bob is an unemployed veteran
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| Born and bred in the south bronx
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| He’s living off the streets down in east l.a.
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| Residing in a cardboard box
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| Now he plays a little quit and he has a small dog
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| Searching for aluminum cans
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| And he hold on tight to his dignity
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| He was born into american life |