Here we in our State of things
Preserved like pickles in a crock
Demanding that our open lid
Be tightly screwed up in a lock
No longer part of anything
In our soak surrounded brine
In charge of all our little things
Hoping all will turn out fine
Summertime infused excessively
Hot air everywhere we breathe
A silly season in a madhouse
Where all the inmates want to leave
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