Scrambled, sunny-side up, over-easy, boiled, or poached?
Another war where the fruits of victory
taste like ashes between tongue and cheek.
The protestor’s spit is thicker than the bliss
of the soldier’s subordinate ignorance.
The big-whigs pick up the tab, but leave no tip.
These crumbs are too small for a mouse’s lips!
They swallow every scrap and call it: Service.
But, they’re always “right.” We’re just a waitress.
With hair-pulled back, this grin eats shit.
“Fake it ‘til you make it.”
And how would like your eggs, sir?
