I pity the poor immigrant
who would have preferred to stay at home,
who uses all his power to do harm
but who in the end is always left alone
That man who with his fingers deceives
and who lies with every breath he takes
who hates his life with fury
and just as much fears fears his death
I pity the poor immigrant
whose efforts are in vain
whose paradise is like the Ironsides
and whose tears are like rain
Who eats but is not satisfied
Who listens but does not see
Who falls in love with wealth
and turns his back on me
I pity the poor immigrant
who crawls into the mud
and fills his mouth with laughter
and builds his city with blood
Whose visions when all is done
will be shattered like glass
I pity the poor immigrant
when his joy is over

Bob Dylan and Joan Baez. remember?