Email Poem

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Poem

Bring me ye huddled masses no more.
Bring me ye poor, ye hungry no more.
No more yearning freedom, no room on the shore. 

For that dilemma is a domestic case now.
Our own tired, and poor, to the man do they bow. 
Same accord we all share, though be it veiled. 
More brazen than Romans or Greeks could be scaled. 

For our branches have spread from the atlantic on east.
From deep down in Africa, to the mid east not ceased. 
Spreading so thin, like butter on toast.
Losing our substance, occupy every coast. 
Liberation the veneer, “freedom!” they boast!

Attributes of an empire decaying inside.
From a view it is grand, but look in, sight the snide.
For the tempest is here, though most lie in snore.
The door actually golden, with freedom it poured. 
Now gold is the shell, what’s inside; ignored.

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