The Ships of States that lay out there
heaved a mighty sigh,
sending the No Ones scrambling—
some went here, some there, back and forth.
¡América! De ti cantamos.
Are these the poor, huddled masses,
the tired, the wretched refuse, the riff-raff,
the dirty, yearning destitutes
scurrying toward our dim northern light?
Perhaps the Gadsden Purchase crossed them.
Someone called this a Promised Land—
Come get a new Anthem and a Waiver,
Officially written on Official Paper—
The irony of the so-called storied pomp?
Out here there is no Ellis Island;
no welcoming Madre de los Exiliados.
The kitchens are tidied by the riff-raff,
the wretched refuse mow the lawns,
the huddled masses harvest the fields.
Those Clever Foxies, wrapped in the flag,
call it The Invasion, with a clack of their heels
and a smirk on their lips and lies on their tongues.
The No Ones ask:
Where is your celebrated lamp?
Where is the golden door?
¿Por qué sea tan difícil?
E pluribus unum?
Not so much.
At that, the No Ones cry,
and no one says
Amen.
