The Outcaste feat. Dave Van Ronk

歌詞

Oh gather 'round me people, lend and ear now if you please Your promised land was settled, by bastards, drunks and thieves Excuse me if it offends you, but I'm the worst of all of these Yes I destroyed the family tree, I am the Outcast I'm your inbred second cousin who was kept inside a shed I'm the cross-eyed little stutterer who always wet the bed I'm yer queer Uncle Harry, yer retarded Uncle Fred I'm the one they left for dead, I am The Outcast I've embarrassed folks at weddings, birthdays and at wakes I'm the cur who passed out face down in your anniversary cake I'm the black sheep, the Philanderer, the Louse, the Souse, the Rake The remittance man, the Snake - the bloody outcast Oh forebear with yer pity, my functions very plain We've come here from the Olde World, and we've gone a touch insane On a social scale ya need a foil to bear the family stain I am the Joker in yer game; I am The Outcast Oh the black man and the Indian, the Chinaman the Jew They built yer friggin railroad and they picked yer cotton too They washed yer dirty laundry and they tied yer children's shoes They got a right to sing the blues, 'cause they were outcasts! Now we worship politicians, as if they all were saints Put their faces on our money, pillow slips and plates We should love this land for what it is, and not for what it ain't Oh their game is fueled by hate, the hate of outcasts! The Norwegians hate the Swedish and the Swedes they hate the Finns The Finns they hate the Russians and the Russians hate the Yids Spicks and Wops and Greasers; Kikes and Spades and Ginny Hens Hatred's blowin' in the wind, 10 million outcasts Oh beautiful for spacious skies and amber waves of grain Grain distilled to make the rye that pickled old Tom Paine Old Georgie built the White house with slaves who died in pain But Georgies quarries made the gain, from blood of outcasts! Move in a little closer now, the side show must begin History will repeat itself: again, again, again! On the immigration totem pole the low man never wins But competition ain't a sin! God help the outcast! So step right up ya pilgrims, the trains a leavin' soon We got acreage out in Iowa for the likes of folks like you A quarter section in a flood plain; forty acres and a mule Sign right here ya bloody fools; Welcome ye Outcasts!