In Between The Lines

Give me your tired, your poor, we say.

                            We will return them overworked and underpaid. 

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, we say.

                            Our air is no cleaner than yours but it is harder to breathe      
                            with a boot on your neck but remember you prayed

                            for this.

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore, we say.

                            The refuse we will throw out when we're done using, their       
                            worth pre-made and weighed. 

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, we say.

                            You will be no better off, those you sent will neither. Ours is 
                            a system long decayed.

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

                            Do you have the key? The Doormen are asking.

As for us? Well, what can we say?

                            We are Liberty, don't you know, with our sharp blade?                                             Justice for all, we call each day.

You just happen to not be in our all.