‘That you, in the dim coming times,
May know how my heart went with them
After the red-rose-bordered hem.’ —W.B. Yeats
The roads are littered with gold, they said
Hard work and belief in oneself if one possess
Enough to make a new life, they merrily proclaimed
Come one and come all, we will all progress
El Dorado it was not, didn’t matter to folks
A hard working lot, they not afraid to work
Melting pot of civilizations, they wrote the songs
Built roads to carry produce, beef and pork
New immigrants not like us, they say it’s wrong
Coming in hordes stealing our jobs and bread
Something is rotting in heaven, stench is strong
Skeletons brushed under the rug poking their head
Time to stand up, trouble brewing in the horizon
Standing up to injustice is the only solution
This poem is in response to Jane Dougherty’s A Month (November) with Yeats Challenge day Thirteen
Definitely
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That’s what they say about immigrants, sin’t it? The last one in pulls up the ladder behind him.
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Unfortunately that’s human habit I suppose.
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Seems to be.
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