A poem: drive-thru

(alternate title: the bitch at McDonald's who fucks up my order every single time)



You're a disease,

Failure lives in your haircut,

You're a cancer of the soul,

Stay out of my visual receptors



Rinse, lather, repeat,

You still suck!,

I want to give your face an abortion



I said I didn't want pickles on that,

I can't hear you through the fucking clown head,

You're a cancer of the soul,

Stay out of my visual receptors



Rinse, lather, repeat,

Straighten that paper hat, you sloppy bitch,

WHERE... IS... MY... FUCKING... STRAW?!?!



Did you steal the change I put in the little Ronald McDonald house?,

Your mullett is a work of art,

You're a cancer of the soul,

Stay out of my visual receptors



Rinse, lather, repeat,

Quit talkin' to the gay black guy at the fry-o-lator!,

FIX... THE... FUCKING... SHAKE... MACHINE!!!!



When I smell french fries, I smell minimum wage,

Is that the name of your perfume?,

You're a cancer of the soul,

Stay out of my visual receptors



Rinse, lather, repeat,

That dolphin on your ankle is now a whale, nice orthopedic shoes,

What's it like... WORKING FOR A TEENAGER AT 45?!?!



I'd like to beat you to death with one of Ronald's hard rubber clown shoes,

Your smile looks like a mouthful of toe nail clippings,

You're a cancer of the soul,

Stay out of my visual receptors