"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-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
One day, Mikey, you'll be poor, and you'll be out of a job. That day you'll start hating yourself both for what you were, and for what you are.