Golden Arches

By Julian M.

Golden Arches

Night beacon for misplaced rabble

Pallid glow promising wretched delights

Benevolent smile: can I help who’s next?

Those Golden Arches are a bug zapper

And they attract the flies

Pristine inside, though

Squeaky chairs, squeaky clean

The fireplace, a homely touch

A nice effort

However:

Bloated garbages, the stains

It’s the inmates

And their mess we can never clean up

We watch them at their insanity

We, standing in the belly of the machine

As we whirr and the lights flash

We are the arms of an automaton

Instruments, we assemble

Mustardketchuponionpickle

Out standard composition

Fathermothersondaughter

But remember:

The pickles never touch,

The parents never smile.

The timers don’t stop beeping,

The children won’t stop screaming.

The breakfast eggs

Can be full of blood, did you know that?

When the red goes gushing into their unsuspecting mouths

When they taste our iron in their bodies

And feel the rot clawing at their flesh

It’s only then

That they spit it out

Who cares what we did to the white ones?

Our Golden Arches

Are a rigid grin, made cheap

To conceal our hideous aims