The Outcast Songtext

von Tom Russell

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 offens 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 blackman 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 Gresears; 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 Thom Paine
Old Georgie built the Whitehouse 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!