af Fjodor Piccaluga
Oh heavenly Muse,
sing of ducks that dig McDonalds
of Nantucket McNuggets near
Ronald’s rod-hard pocket-
rocket, of bowel release,
of Quarter Pounders with cheese.
Sing of the rod-stiff rhyme sticking
Ronald to McDonald,
Big Mac to buttcrack,
in paperbacks by Kerouac.
Sing of depressive happy meals,
of intestinal puns, the runs, and Big n’ Tasty pastry buns,
burgers, buckets of world famous fries,
and about these lines whose verse apply,
a position, at McDonalds on my behalf,
Sing McMuse, for the cheddar-Chaucer-chipotle-top-cheese-tuna-chicken-classic-tub-cropped-crispy
Wife of Bath.
Oh Muse, i’m lovin’ it’, so
Bondage, bind and bun me
With the burgereal unicorn of your pants
The company perk, the uniform, true romance,
Indeed I’m open to all suggestions,
The Big Mac, Macbeth, or the Honey-Mustard-Snack-Wrap in question,
If only I receive minimum wage
I’ll slave and slave to the end of days,
If you, Ray McKrook, allow me to have a say,
Employ, exploit or Whopper me…HAVE IT YOUR WAY.