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In a town in southernmost Sicily |
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Lived a family too proud to be poor |
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In the year that fever took father away |
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They hastened for American shores |
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Now a mother and her son are standing in line |
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It's a cold day on Ellis Isle |
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And they look to the Statue of Liberty |
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For the boy we have American Life |
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Ong is a Laotian refugee |
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He works in the audio trade |
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The smoke from flux is filling his lungs |
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He's earning minimum wage |
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Spending spare time down on |
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San Pablo ave |
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Once a week gets a woman for the night |
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And he writes home tales of prosperity |
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For the boy we have American Life |
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Bob is an unemployed veteran |
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Born and bred in the South Bronx |
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He's living off the streets down in east L.A. |
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Residing in a cardboard box |
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Now he plays a little quit and he has a small dog |
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Searching for aluminum cans |
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And he hold on tight to his dignity |
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He was born into American Life |
