Despite the constitution’s wishing well
of coin-operated autographs,
Uncle Sam never learned to sign
his name and he sits on the porch
of a military installation buried
under a mountain in his underwear
with an icepack and a wet washcloth,
cigar bobbing up and down, cursing
the heat, but no one can hear him
all tucked away in that remote location,
and he wishes he had only listened
while taking his hat off to fan himself
which at least now serves as some
sort of audible air conditioning.
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