Fast Food Regular


Suckle, Suckle, Suckle!
On the tit of cocaine-like sugar I guzzle!
I pull in every day, death closes in with every sip,
The folds of my skin so tight, soon they’ll rip.

I’m a statistic that never kept up,
The nation’s pace so fast, you’ll need another cup.
I fell through the cracks, overwhelmed by work,
So little time, poisonous junk became my only quirk.

My family passed me by,
My friends long since have overlooked,
I thought I didn’t know why,
But too late I realized my brain’s been hooked.

The server’s fake smile convinces me not to resist,
Even though they’re only puppets to their bosses’ fist.
After our exchange concludes, in their eyes a feud,
They spot my gloom, trapped, but won’t dare intrude.

His boss, the owner, always giddy, but never smiling,
Doesn’t see people, rather, his money, piling.
Even to his best employees, he won’t give slack,
And plants racism, misogyny, claiming it keeps business intact.
To his superiors, greed glues logic and hate, reconciling.

The owner golfs with corporate, who give effort even less than he, 
Who turn profit off people’s vulnerability, like that of me.
Carelessly they include rotten chemicals, worse than the foulest of trench rations,
Exploiting our predisposition for addiction with propagandist captions.
Finally, my tongue brought back ‘round, continued contradictory use of money.

I’ll always give a larger share to the grunts, the employees, 
They (falsely) give most everything to their franchisees,
Who only give their time for their foundation to be built upon,
Because money is the only way that their youth will spawn.
I know, because guilt glimmers back at me, shone so I can see.

For a long time, to life, I’ve shouted uncle,
In turn, hardship brings me around again.
For I’ve lost all, motivation a lost campaign,
What’s left: masked servers’ feign 
And a widening belt buckle.

Suckle, Suckle, Suckle!
I thought I stopped using pacifiers at age one, I chuckle.
Wherever I look, patience seems like a struggle,
It’s between career or family, or you’ll have to juggle.

I’m dying sooner, and with less life
Than I would’ve if I’d put up with the strife.

Slowing down, soon I’ll be a patient, oh, I’ll regret,
That at my death, I was trapped, and hadn’t lived yet.

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