Not like the brazen giant of not bankrupt Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from Iraq to Afghanistan;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset Homeland Security gates shall stand
A mighty bureaucracy with a torch, whose flame
Is the predator drone, and her name
Mother of Dragons. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide surveillance ; her mild radar eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep ancient lands of dictators supported by us, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your skilled, your rich,
Your huddled masses yearning to have better income tax free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming ghetto shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden arches door!”