Squeaky Wheel Gets the Nitrous Oxide, poem by Dennis Mahagin

Car­ry on, wis­dom, as if eye teeth depend­ed,
floss, floss, don't let them fit you for insane.
Lips make a purse, spit out
the Jol­ly Ranch­er,

get on your bike again.

Rot­ten molars,
a hail of bul­lets. My hygien­ist is buy­ing
an assault rifle on time.

It’s what you've got
to take, entropy and a flask of flu­o­ride
in the jock­ey box, you’ve got to talk
to the voice at the Dri­ve Through

like an old uncle who's very, very fond of you
yet wor­ried, with a ner­vous smile. A Check Up
would ease the mind, as crack
on a side­walk, numb­ing the gums
come on hum­mer: hur­ry up twelve speed,
live the youth before they yank it now
sit up, sit up and spit

the wind for what it does to fears, rip­pling
tall grass­es in sum­mer, the dis­tant rum­ble
of helios, hogs and chop­pers.
I say, hang
a hard left here at the light, you begin
to under­stand, all right, too much, fruit
smooth­ie on such a beau­ti­ful day,
coun­te­nance bright

as any dime, a lit­tle bell on
the han­dle­bar, you work it

like a Water Pic: it’s a laugh,

it's a gas,

and it's going away.

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