Now stands the brazen giant of tee-vee fame
Whose hate filled breath has poisoned our land
Here at our walled and barricaded borders shall stand
A mighty ego with hair as flame
While the gilt and gilded letters of his name
Trump. From his stumpy-fingered hand
A raised finger of insult; his wild eyes command
All bow to the fear his policies frame.

“Keep, all the world, your immigrants!” shouts he
With bared teeth and lips. “Screw your tired, your poor,
Fuck the huddled masses longing to be free,
Damn the fleeing frightened of your war-torn shore
Their plight means nothing to me.
My beautiful wall shall have no door!”

The original, by Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “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!”