Quote:
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!"
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You know ... instead of the huddled masses and wretched refuse, couldn't we ask for everyone else's rich, smart and well-dressed masses?