A buck ninety-nine.
If you pull up to the
Window at 32nd and Rose
And order something cheap but good
With a tad more fat than you know you should
Have but secretly crave,
Make sure to tell them to make it a value meal,
And they’ll wrap her in whole wheat lace
And stick extra magnums in your bag
Along with the tomato lube and honey Dijon.
When you get her home
And the smell of her leaking juices is so pungent —
That you can put aside your
Moral concerns about the hormone-injecting slaughterhouse
She came from,
Under the black light
So you can count the other spilled seeds on her ass
And delight in knowing you’ve bought a piece of
High quality meat.
Don’t think the fat cow beneath you
Flashing her neon nails
And wielding her branded tits
Could possibly take you as her victim.