The New New Colossus
She held her lamp beside my golden door,
And knocked and knocked. I snarled at her: “Get lost!
We’re full—no room for refuse, tempest-tossed,
Pathetic losers, scroungers, tired and poor.
You’re probably some kinda foreign whore
Dumped by your pimp, abandoned, double-crossed,
Who’s looking for a fix at any cost…
Still, if you’re hot, maybe I’ll let you score.
I’m YUGE, despite what all those liars say.
You’re telling me that Liberty’s your name?
It’s unAmerican, but if you blow okay…”
I let her in—believe me, quite a dame!
“Hi, Liberty!” I smirked. You think I wooed her?
I grabbed her, then I well and truly screwed her.
Brian Allgar, although immutably English, has lived in Paris since 1982. He started entering Spectator and New Statesman competitions in 1967, but took a 35-year break, finally re-emerging in 2011 as a kind of Rip Van Winkle of the literary competition world. His work has appeared in The New Statesman, The Oldie, The Spectator, Flash500, Light, Lighten Up Online, Snakeskin, The Quarterly Review, The Great American Wise Ass Anthology, Measure, The Penguin Book of Limericks, and possibly a few other places that he’s forgotten. He also drinks malt whiskey and writes music, which may explain his fondness for Mendelssohn’s “Scottish” Symphony.