What would Emma Lazarus say?
Not like the brazen giantess of New York,
With welcoming lantern by the Golden Door;
Here at our slime-washed, southern gates shall stand
A drowned woman with five drowned kids, and blame
For this travesty can never be named:
Mother of wet backs. From her fish-et-hand
An invitation shows; her dimmed eyes remand
The air-brained POTUS Barry; he’s the same.
“Keep, Mexico your endless slums!” 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.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost like me;
The smugglers charged a fortune, and what for?”