
Four hours for a crust.
Welcome to the end of history.
Static in the sidewalk queue,
waiting for a carb with a point of view.
Carbon-dated logo, scorched in the grain,
bleach-blonde ego, drought in the brain.
Sixty dollar sourdough, artisan heat,
trampling the spirit just to post what you eat.
Oh, we’re burning daylight for the crust,
turning all our logic into dust.
Stamp a little symbol on the wheat,
and the whole world’s kneeling at its feet.
Glitter on the butter, hollow in the core,
give me less for more, more, more.
Tick, tock, the toaster clicks.
Society’s fixed on the branding bricks.
We aren't hungry for the bread,
we’re just starving to be fed...
vanity.
It’s literally just bread, Dave.
Go home.
The butter’s melting.
And so is the ice cap.