I Pity The Poor Immigrant — текст песни (Bob Dylan)

I pity the poor immigrant

Who wishes he wouldve 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 evry 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 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,

Whose visions in the final end

Must shatter like the glass.

I pity the poor immigrant

When his gladness comes to pass.