Who do you think you are,
Ronald McDonald,
a clown or a god?
The boons you offer,
burgers and fries,
a heaven of convenience
beneath golden arches,
have lured me away
from more difficult heavens,
from the moral weed patch paradise
with its tempting fruit and modest leaves.
Ronald,
evangel of the fast fed.
I do not speed through the drive-thru,
irreverent and rude.
No,
I walk into your chapel for my food.
I make my ablution
with filmy soap and raging air.
I raise before the stainless altar
the round loaf of blessing and
imbibe the phizzing foam of happy grace.
Here is my confession high lord of appetite:
-I do not read your hi-cal, hi-carb catechism.
-I scarf French fried potatoes dripping fat.
-I eschew commandments forbidding salt.
-I sing hymns to the immediate satiation of desire.
Are you nonplused that I take the time
to trouble you with this impertinence while I dine?
But rest assured, dear satisfying deity,
whose salvific promise is hunger fast assuaged,
I trust my famished soul to your munificence.