"Give me your...." Yeah...yeah! "...your tired, your poor..." Sure...sure - heard it all before. "...huddle masses yearning to breathe free..." I mean....really. Yadda Yadda Yadda the words ring false...the chimes of freedom oh don't make me laugh "...the wretched refuse of your teeming shore..." Words words nothing more!
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; 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. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”