Unlike the Bully Broad of Anglo-Saxon fame,
Whose sloshing thighs smother the charred land,
Here on our parked-car windshields shall stand
A scorching beauty with surging bust, whose flame
Is rampant lust incarnate, and her name
Mother of Exiles. With her beaconing hand
She welcomes you inside; her wild eyes command
The love-starved pilgrim to ascend her frame.
"Keep, Anglo-World, your freeze-dried lump!" cries she
With pulsing hips. "Give me your tired, your bored,
Your curdled messes yearning to live free,
The retching refugees from your whining shore,
Send these, the loveless and drought-parched, to me:
I lift my red lamp o'er the unmarked door."
