Prosperity is A Corner Soda Fountain Tumbling Down, Gone: Boomer Poem 2012A

Thugs with chug-a-mugs give me the bugs.
Don't drink scudsuds from All so what the. . .
ugh-ugh, shrug, no. Hey, Jughead? Jug?
What you script has rug-weaver?
Pharma-grey suiticals, trim cuticals.
Organ-ization Mang.
It's been dug but now I'm just a useless slug.
Some might say.
They crapped out, ba-bloom, they out.
Three strikes unlucky.
Diabetes defeaties my wheaties, me tweeties.
Kaleidoscopic misanthropic, so time to drop-kick.
Uber under weather, beather to cease, Jeese.
Cheese. Rotten damn-ed cheese.
Your reward for making a good salary.
A good job with the intercom and a big-assed secretary
and the lips red, guy next door Fred wants it too,
Allofit.
It's been used
and never been choos'd
For purposes porpoises would say, "thanks but no."
United we fly, not unzipped,
divided we seem a little dry, not wet bar, nurse,
bring em here, or hear sea shanty, and a curse.
No, it ain't peculiar.
It's what we nose, smell, see, hear,
cents at a time, into the bubblegum machine slot.
What goes? Recedes, flower petals falling,
seeds hitting the travel mode in the gusty wind. . .
Univox, univox, mox, eee, they stole all the clocks, Jaques.
So here it sit stubborn mule-ier.
And so then on to some Tuesday.
To try and be unrul-ier.
Or remember something, some time, place, universe, graced
with better leather to roll out the weather
without the letterman's itchy sweater.
Football goodbye, pink-bellies, futures.
Slabs of raisin cookies
with little red ants crawling lengthwise.
Go! Off with you. Off with the past.
Off with the pints, the quartz, topaz,
Godzilla meat-o beat-o Mothra with clam sauce!
Change your clothespins or remove them
and proceed onto the street, naked.
That is all. Over.
All over.