Not like the Amazonian lady of New World fame,
With welcoming arms astride from shore to shore;
Here at our greed-washed lands, golden gates shall close
A tired woman with a torch, whose flame
Is now the extinguished lightning, and her name
Mother of Dissatisfaction. From her heavy-hand
Glows world-wide rejection; her furious eyes command
The dystopian harbor that twin cities frame.
“Conquer stolen lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With roaring lips. “Give me your wealthy, your children,
Your English - speaking computer programmers yearning to breathe free,
The pale white Christian only of your teeming shore.
Send these, the Kings, Martha's Vineyard and golf-tost to me,
I shut my gates beside the golden door!”
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