Wankers Poem by James McLain

Being born Ignorant; in America
it feels strange to know nothing.
And of this your secret most will lie
never to be so sure, safety.
I walk into a store; out over there
next too that place out yonder,
that same chamber of commerce,
billed as your next heart of America.
Of what is red and white or real,
blue some what like you, when I smile.
I ask the old balding tailor who speaks
with a fake french midwestern accent
I'm sure he is wankers and the worst of it.
I see the empty Rosetta stone case empty
But forced to prequalify again or so I feel,
Or Well, it does seem so: some where out here,
Someone must know about it so I ask the tailor.
In America so full of wankers, and if you ask them.