All are Beautiful

Remembers me eyesight, when song was spring bright, and perchance, in a harbor, the Statue of Liberty sang.

Not far from Mannahattas, big brash wall street bull a’ steamin’ to go a gleaming, as brash brass is gold, with benefits.

I saw her crown, of thorns, and I loved them thistles, and whistles, and inside Tattle Tail Statue of Liberty’s — where her eyes were– an observation deck so you could look out, as a tourist, usually, I would assume, on to the confluence of rivers with harbors, and commerce.

Did you take a boat here? To this island? Where madam watched with torch? You not a billionaire, but a tiny spark? You got your ticket blare, sunshine heir, this is fun!

Nothing wrong with mud, but would you track it in so blithely if not knowing you had a Mexidcan, err, Spanish Armada, err, Poetrican and she’s a maid? A made maid? A maid made from Puerto Poeto Plumb Plum Rican in a Harlem of tears. Plus, there is no way the French gave the USA the Statue of Liberty as a Trojan Horse.