Much like the elder grouch who knows no shame,
With doughy limbs deployed to block the way;
And bid the tempest-tost to go away
An orange mobster, Tiki torch aflame
A torch that casts but darkness, fear and blame
Shunner of Exiles. From his beacon-hand
Burns White Pride hatred; his puffy eyes command
Our founding concepts that his acts defame.
“Keep, shit hole lands, your dirty mobs!” cries he
With sneering lips. “Take back your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to live free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Don’t send your homeless, tempest-tost to me,
We’ve yanked the welcome mat and locked the door!”
