Mess

We go everyday, know what to expect,
The kind of food that the poor would reject.
The service is bad and the food is worse,
And the smell alone could make us disperse.
They give tickets which I always collect,
I don’t give a shit, they’ll never suspect.
They give us cold food that’s graced with long hair.
Complain and they say, “the microwave‘s there.”
“Go and be healthy, you should try to eat right,”
But the only thing that tastes right is the Sprite.
They don’t even try to have pride in what’s made,
Why should they care?  They know I already paid.