Much like the thankless giant of Manhattan lore,
With lumbering walls from sea to sea;
Here at our cul-de-sac, picket fence shall house
A fear-filled man in lawn chair, whose mouth
Is the pursed anus of the suburbs, and his name
Father of Whites. From beef-fed fingers
He points world-wide, you’re fired; his hateful eyes decry
The dusty river that headless bodies mark.
“Keep your grubby hands off harried stash,” cries he
With urban drawl. “Give me your cash, your praise,
Your huddled millions yearning to stoke my ego,
The interest accrued in teeming accounts off shore.
Send these. The homeless, hungry, hopeful hordes?
I’ll kick them out, bolt closed the door!”
In response to The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus