Jan. 30, 2019: "The Old Colossus," by Mr. Ben

The wall's already built; 
It just doesn't stretch the border. 
It spans the lands, enacts it's plans: 
Dividing social order. 

Bricks are in our words 
And labor in our care. 
We maintain its sturdy frame 
With blame not ours to share. 

Work again for all when up goes the wall 
Now, crumbling down, our foundations fall. 

The Old Colossus 
Weeping in the harbor: 
Her silenced voice 
Screams out for choice, 
Her bronze now used for armor. 

On stolen land. 
People banned with arbitrary nature. 
We're pacified with facts divided 
Of artificial danger. 

Give me your tired, your poor. 
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. 
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. 
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me. 
I lift my lamp beside the golden door. 
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.