On every highway
in every town
I can see those golden arches—
they scowl down at me
from their metal-pole perch.

They are the perfect symbol
of American culture—
we want it fast, cheap, and greasy.

I drive by it sometimes
to see who is in line—
obese children
whose parents are almost ready to sue for their own incompetence.

let's go down to the drive-thru,
say hi to the 16-year-old fastfood slave:
"Scuse me, I'll have chicken mcnuggets and a big mac
with a side order of heart disease.

Oh, and fries."
(they never think it's funny)

In each bite I can taste
the irony—
I hate it yet I keep paying for it,
and I can't get away;
I drive and drive
but the arches follow me like the horizon.