You givin me a 2.99 menu worth 33 cents and call it a happy meal? You come to our neighbourhoods ripping businesses out the borough so you can stamp your brand on our foreheads and dole out pitiful wages to the underprivileged. Buns and slavery. Banquet burger shortfalls and quarterly profits racking up the ill money in temperate markets. Plastered smiles and slick commercials dotting the scenic view in the hood. Garbage wrappers clogging arteries of the street with the obesity tunnel. Shakes and pies dancing in display cases and brightly lit hubs of convenience. Put a franchise on every block and call it free market. Po folks struggling for diversity amid the clamor.
Bright lights and vivid colors to tantalize and brainwash our kids; susceptible to the hustle. Toys and playthings make em connect your food with joy and presents, basic conditioning flowing through those arches. But you’re the opportunity, the job creators within the village, sacrosanct employers for which we must be greatful. The service industry is a wonderful thing, moneymaking is a wonderful thing, we are all just things.
Family affair, low-grade beef, sprawling menus of high caloric content to feed the need, the greed built in, the seed in our children. Stuck out of luck, drinks for a buck, healthy choices above pay grades located in the gentrified community. You force yourself on us and we whimper no. Deaf men aplenty, this a no issues, capitalism current so bask in it. Love it, crave it, get pop stars to embrace it. Trapped in the shuffle no way for the weary.