| You’re tired and you’re poor,
|
| you long to be free,
|
| but in this Godforsaken land
|
| you find no home, no family
|
| on the many roads that you’ve wandered
|
| since the day of your birth.
|
| You’ve become one of the last,
|
| lonely and wretched.
|
| Your hair is matted,
|
| your face and hands are dirty,
|
| and the years that you’ve toiled
|
| must number somewhere near thirty.
|
| The deepening of a sadness
|
| broke finally into madness.
|
| You are truly one of the last,
|
| lonely and wretched.
|
| Your eyes are wild and frightening
|
| at the same time they are blessed
|
| and I wonder if God died,
|
| turned his back or only just rested.
|
| And you walked out on the seventh day
|
| through the big gates and on your way
|
| to become one of the last,
|
| lonely and wretched.
|
| For once you were a child.
|
| Your cheeks were red,
|
| you were well fed.
|
| You laughed and played
|
| till you got teary,
|
| ran to your mother
|
| when you were weary.
|
| But somewhere you were forsaken
|
| alone I’ll not bear the blame
|
| and somehow all was taken,
|
| your mind, your body, your name.
|
| Forgive us our unkindness,
|
| our desertion and our blindness,
|
| with you, all the last,
|
| lonely and wretched.
|
| Forgive us, all the last,
|
| lonely and wretched.
|
| ‚© 1970, 1971 Chandos Music (ASCAP) |