The True Colossus

Not unlike the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sludge-washed, smoggy gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Maker of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide warning; her wild eyes condemn
The world to quake at her country’s name.

“Keep, ancient lands, your heathen scum!” cries she
With silent lips. “Fuck all your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Leave these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my sword and send them through hell’s door!”

Occasionally, my friends, works of art need a little cleaning up. The original text and the story behind it is here:

I hope that some day, my country will once again resemble the beacon of hope and freedom invoked in that famous poem. But until then, I can only implore the world to see that the drones, the bombs, and the barbed wire that bear our flag were not placed there by the people of America, but by the forces that stole our nation from us while we were distracted.

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