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-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
by Emma Lazarus, New York City, 1883
Where is her lamp?
Where is the light?
Where and when do we begin to shake our foolish pride and say...
Enough is enough?
More importantly, when do we say,
"Its not my car or house that makes me a better person. Its my generosity and my kindness that I hope to reflect upon the world before I leave."
How can you have a billion dollars and not think twice about wanting to give half away to help the poor?
Can you not be happy with $500 million?
What the fuck is wrong with the 1%?!!!!
There is over 200 billionaires in the US alone but they would rather fuck their sister or brother than see their money leave the family.
And they will fight the brother and sister they just screwed to fuck them out of the money too!!
The Blonde rather have government cheese!
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