Made from the Irish famine,
And by Mexican imports,
She lies in the hearts of the local and the foreigner,
As this boundless land grows potato and corn
To fill plates, which is the only mercy
A migrant asks for in the first instance,
And there is nothing to milk,
From this new land, except a green card,
That tells you, you’re now a part of this terrain,
Carrying the right to make tequila
And poteen, while spurring on the human spirit,
To distill a fraction of an American,
Which with time, will slowly become one,
With the golden-bodied Budweiser,
Gripping and moistening one’s lips
To the cold bitter tide of a brew,
Healing a homesick heart,
Of her sweet nostalgia.
