Dollar ninety-nine wrappers filling up the landfill;
can after can after can after can after can after can
plus pillowy chocolate running smooth down
the gastric sewers 'neath a clueless street.
In some never-coming tomorrow,
he'll catch a common cancer, maybe
that kind his mom always talks about,
cancer of the delighted or whatnot.
Oh-well-fare-well.
Some day soon comes the cataclysm,
and the streets will flow with fresh spring water,
pure as the roofs of mountains.
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