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If I Still Wrote Poems They'd Come Out Like This

All future frivolity is relegated to my socks.


My youth as tattered as Angus Young’s shorts.

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My only investment is the silver streak in George Clooney’s luscious hair.

“Suicide by procrastination” Ronald McDonald proclaimed. 

         (He's more halting than joyful anymore — Happy Meals taking on a far more Melancholy tone).


“Fry me to the moon!” I told Morgan Spurlock and his mustache twittered.

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          All the boys are beautiful.

          And it’s time to grow up.


Frivolous socks bellow : “Do the Rockafeller Skank!”

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And I was lifted the entire way 

         to heaven smuggled in 

           Christopher Walken’s secret container.


An uncomfortable hunk of metal, indeed.