"..... and don't forget your potheads!"

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset hates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lighting, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon hand
Glows world-wide welcome, her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame,
"Keep, ancient lands; your stored pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breath free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I'll lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Emma Lazarus (1849-1887)