Somebody needs to make changes to the poem on the statue of liberty.
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
MOTHER OF EXILES. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome (when Immigration has the funds); her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
But not the rapists, only the ones I assume are good people.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
But all the same, I will point them homewards because of the administrative bottleneck!"
Sounds poetic to me.
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