I Am Never Going To Write For

Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor, Your Huddled Masses Yearning To Breathe Free.

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.

Let Our First Care Today Be The Re-establishment Of Our Physical Strength, The Reconstruction Of Our National Organism, So That In Future, Where The Respect Due To Us Cannot Be Won By Entreaty, It May Be Commanded, And Where It Cannot Be Commanded, It May Be Enforced.

Life's Sharpest Rapture Is Surcease Of Pain.

There Is No Comfort Looking Forth Nor Back, The Present Gives The Lie To All Her Past.