The beach vendors read their papers,
and wait for kids with glowing faces.
They'll sully the beach by their wrappers,
and stay away from the wetter places.
The balloons are all the standard colors,
against the backdrop's monochrome.
Others vendors have scars from oil boilers,
and pre-sugared delights, built for some.
A sign reads, "cotton candy", that's sweetly blessed,
by some bum swaying to, "...this is the end."
Hands are held from his sides, quite Romanesque:
some whino with chipped glasses, presses 'send'.
The ivory fatcreme sundaes drip,
past the fat-lip, and over the pounches.
There is overabundance, as is hip,
as they spill over their jellied hounches.
Then there's Pete there, getting more jelly,
his do-nots, are spilling on the sand.
He's about to curse his over-belly,
that this, never came, from his hand.