It appears I have no worldly ambitions In the least, at least that’s what My discerning, highly Esteemed colleagues mostly Accuse me of, and I suspect They are right—after all, All I’ve ever wanted is To make myself comfortable Before a blank piece of paper And make believe It’s my whole world.
Most poor souls who ended up Leaving their bodies here Came over because friends Or relatives wrote And told them it was not at all Like the old country;
In this new world There was more than you Could imagine, plenty To do and more Money than you Ever dreamed of—
All you had to do Was keep your head Down, stoop over And—without Missing a beat— Pick it up.