Give me your tired, your poor
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
They can start a bar or candy store.
We’ll make ours in private equity.
Descendants of these hapless schlubs
In just a generation
Can join us in our country clubs,
And proudly look back on the life
They built upon this shore. Cheers
Will echo for their toil and strife
At least once every four years.
And when the game of life is scored
You’ll see that hard work pays
Being rich is our reward
For grandpa’s 16-hour days.