Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses
Your hungry children, yearning to be free…
I’ll haul them off, across the mountain passes,
And scatter them from sea to shining sea.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.
I’ll keep them safe, under the lock and key,
And harbor them like prisoners of war.
Mother of Exiles, following each order, -
I’ll wash them, feed them, let them watch TV.
Let go of them, head back across the border!
America, America! God shed His grace on thee.