Too Late Late Capitalism

A plate of freeranging eggs, fried with palm oil,
On a plastic chaise lounge -- how poetic is that?
I’d never settle for polyester, spandex or rayon
For my goddess, freeranging daughters. Where
Did all that money and sex go? (They drained
Down your bottomless bell bottoms, of course.)
I don’t get why folks bother with chicken wings?
There’s no meat on them. Totally tuckered from
Working out on a Solid Pecs Flab Burning Rack,
I chill with Whitman on my billion blades of grass.

Addendum: this farmers’ market’s a chain.
The ships are gone, the chowder remains.