Immigrant Blues by Matt Conlan

Come all you lost souls
And please hear me right
For the immigrant’s struggle
Is a terrible plight
The press picks his bones
‘Til there’s no flesh to steal
And he has not the right
Before us to kneel

He stands on the dockside
On a cold harbour morn
Where his mind flickers back
To the place he was born
Ravaged by famine
Or the bullet in the gun
See the heartbreak inside
He who God has undone

He feeds the machine
If he lives or he dies
For his only one use
Is a politician’s lies
But he is a man
Just like you or me
So give him the right
To love and to dream.

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