Monday Morning Conference Call at McDonalds

The time has been set,
the setting always stagnant.
8:30 at McDonald's,
could I be more ecstatic?

Coffee or orange juice
to sip while I wait
for the regional merchandising manager
to make this another Monday I live to hate.

Merchandise this
so they can profit from that,
it's  the same old beat every week
an hour-long chit-chat
that I'm always distracted from
with the drop of a hat
due to its bland atrocity
from the man on the east coast
dressed in his fat.

French fries sizzle
in a vat of molten fat,
while our respected elders
hold their own chit-chat.

Obama this,
Newt Gingrich that,
Oh God, it's happened again!
I have the attention span of a gnat.

Angry Birds,
played on unmute
while I play the theme song
in my head on a lute.

The call presses on,
and I sharpen my ears
only to hear someone's quote
from Whitney's last years.

Why do I bother
listening to this trash?
Every Monday morning they tell us
How we're going to make them cash.

The cash, yes
that must be it.
Why else would I care
to submit myself to this shit?

All I do is sit there
an hour at McDonald's
and listen to this guy talk
to twenty other vultures.

While they're in listen,
mouths sat in a gape,
they too get paid to sit,
and listen to that damned, dirty ape.

So I guess it's not bad
to get paid for a break,
because I never really listen,
I just sit and escape
into the chit-chatter of peers
and childhood development belate.
This will be a defining mark
of just one of my many years.