"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!"
Note: Limit five hundred per annum.
You're an Iraqi. You've been driven from your home by civil war, hunger, bombings and justifiable fear (after all you didn't live in the "green zone"). You look to the US as a beacon of light and freedom in an otherwise hostile and unforgiving road.
You find that there is no room at the inn. Oh well, maybe you'll hit the lottery!
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