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