Milkshake

My teeth are sad - balefully chewing the
Guff of late afternoon. Fut! I should have been That I am had I rejected all my bastardizing
And been a medic, or a gorgeous man.
The waitress trips the switch.

I crab-dance in the milk; my fortune is:
A comedy of noise and slaps.
The low hum of excellent foppery bubbles
beneath the lovely foam.

A pantomime cartwheel of adult
Obedience and inflammation.
The toxins dissolve me of my afflictions:
My sediment of old configurations -
Good sport, heavenly compulsion, disappointment
And a musical knot of intestinal strings!

Griping under lactose acids, the wheel has come full circle but Correlation is not causation. I'm a man with a milkshake reading my starsign in the back of the Metro. My stomach is sad. 
Sol, la, mi, but speak you on, you Fates; you look as if you had something more to say.