City of the Angels

Give me your tired, your weary
Sick and huddled masses
And I will melt them down
And set them out in plastic molds
Drenched in Tanfastic lotion
To dry in soft brown air.

I will put them on a score
Of crowded freeways
In smoking roaring leased convertibles
And let them get away
To sandy beer-canned beaches
Or to great brown-sided hills
Where plastic palm trees gather dust.

Let them read my signs.
Jesus died for your sensual entertainment
Is pasted on a thousand flaking billboards
In a hundred nameless towns
That bear my mark.
All strewn with Spanish-sounding streets
And row on row of ten by thirteen bedrooms
For only fourteen hundred down.

Send me your lonely
And I will sell them laminated love affairs
Peopled by the great punched-card, proletarian
Mindless mass that I have spawned.
Let them seek for meaning in my midst
And watch them find a substitute.
And satisfaction guaranteed.

For I am naugahyde and chrome.
Show me individuals
And I will teach them to adapt
To air too thick to breathe
And let them drink from
Bottled mountain springs.
I will give them sixteen hours of prime time
Every day, including Sunday.
I will show them how to lose themselves
In crowded pornographic celluloid.
But I will give them joy.

Anything they want for nothing down
And forty-eight installments,
Anything.
And filtered sunshine year around.
And swimming pools and patios of Astroturf.
All wrapped up in yellow cellophane.
You can take this to the bank.
I will give them all that cash can buy.
And everlasting satisfaction guaranteed.