The hummingbird carries no pilot’s license.
He does not qualify for a pilot’s license.
He cannot prove where he was born. This
is true: he cannot prove that he was born
in this, his country of residence. Or anywhere.
There are more hummingbirds at our feeders
every day. They appear so mysteriously
they must have arrived by some hummingbird
Underground Railroad. Lois in Louisville, you’re
on the air. Send them back! I say send them
back to where they came from. Did you know,
Ralph, that a hummingbird will not stand
for the National Anthem? All the sugar they
take from us, and they don’t respect this Nation
enough to simply stand–nobody is asking them
to take off their hats and raise their itsy voices
pledging allegiance to a foreign flag, Good
Heavens, no! Thank you caller. Now: Kjacko,
from Mt Juliet. Am I saying that right? Kjacko?
Yes you are, Ralph, and may I say that I am
proud to be a third-generation citizen. My grand
father studied for ten years to take the citizenship
examination. Working six days every week.
All these hummingbirds want is to eat and
procreate. Scatter a little pollen around, but
we’ve already got carpenter bees for that.
And don’t bother to learn our language. Who
knows what is in their minds, green heads.
I’m afraid that is all we have time for. Come
back tomorrow when we will discuss who
should pay for the burial of armadillos.