Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, 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 storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips.
"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!"
David Blue, Automotive Edition
@dieselgoth
Self-Described Software Historian and COMPAQ ride or die, Writing In Public, consulting from the bilge, and here to help. 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 Largely here because @NeoYokel - my 15-year-old account upon which I'd posted nearly every day, met many of my adult friends, etc., was suspended last summer and I'm trying to rescue my best ideas. (Sorry.)