The quest awaits

Sunlight blinds like nose-shock

As society grips my shoulders

Villain-like

Oily

The reaper’s PR craft perfected

One discarded wrapper after another

Bloated, but hungry

Craving seconds

Molded for death from birth

As long as it comes with a cheap toy and large soda

Why improve life when you can waste away for twice the cost?

Come to me, children, with neon dreams, and nostalgia-coated breeders

Apocalyptically giddy

Suburbs, billboards

Noxious toxins wafting from tailpipe to birth canal

Give them something shiny and wish them the best of luck with the meat grinder

No worries; failure reigns

And the next master’s feed eternal.