Imma B Immigrated

If she raises her hand in greeting

To the poor, the tired, the multi-hued

In New York harbor--

In Arizona she whacks them

On the head.

"We won't judge you by your skin--

We'll just stop you, and card you,"

And perhaps, deport you.

Give up the mothers, the fathers,

Your yard man, your pool guy,

Your hotel maid, your nanny.

By bus, train, boat, or boot,

Just show them the door

Don't let it hit them on the way out.

And don't miss them when they're gone.