Not like the brazen machine of Chicago fame,
With conquering laws astride from boundary to boundary;
Here at our river-crossed, westerward gate shall stand
A mighty state with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
MO of Ex-IL-es. From her beacon-hand
Glows nation-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The river-bridged land that two cities frame.
“Keep, Progressive lands, your gangster pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your energetic, your wealthy,
Your middle classes yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your oppressive Lakeshore.
Send these, the employers, taxation-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the gateway door!”

(inspired by this article and the original poem “The New Colossus”)

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