/lit/ - Literature

McDonald’s Day Dream after McCafe and Pensions

Some days I count the French fries
That roll up and down the frier sides
And bounce into the prim white buckets
All nicely organized for just your budget,

All tangled together like free knots
Where they don’t dare bear organic lots
And live fame out for some higher sense
More than the boy in skates counting cents.

Soothing beeps of zero to one hundred and
Twenty seconds till that sandwich’s end,
When it becomes less fake than ever
Just because it no longer freezes over

Like my eyes in the night as I miss the old
People that ‘away one by one, American mold.