This is America
But where’s the English
Cubans, Mexicans, Dominicans, Puerto Ricans
They all flock here, we all flock here
Lining the streets, painting the town with language, with pride
In search of what’s better than home
That romanticized portrait of the land they could never reach
Or the one where they longed to return
But do they find it, do we find it?

Take a walk down the street
Look into the eyes of the grey haired man
As he sits on his white plastic chair
Like his throne, atop a brick castle
Listen as he beams and boasts
Of his country, his family, his success, of America
Ask him of Cuba
He takes a sip of his whiskey
Looks out to a setting sun and whispers
Mi pais, mi corazon