Give me your poor
Send me your huddled mass
For they shall be poorer
They shall lose even what they lack
Another rich man
Killed on a city street
Another young man
Is getting put to sleep
Like a dog
In a uniform
Lay him out
Like a cruciform
And he’ll lay there for all
The days to come
Give me your tired
Send me your war-torn souls
The fragmented countries
The millions of people without homes
A history of violence
These hands are still bloodied
Decades of silence
The passion that should be
Hasn’t yet
Left our mouths
Dry as the dirt
On the ground
And they’ll lay there for all
The days to come
Give me your voices
Make me a poem from your words
Play me your music
Strum on your heartstrings till you’re heard