By Julian M.
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
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
Out standard composition
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