| This poem i wrote about the Eastern Eateries (fast-food dinning commons at EMU), where my good friend Doug & i spent many a day lounging & making fun of anybody who happened by. This is actually about the sites and smells of breakfast time (which we actually didn't see very often). The title is an idiotic attempt to be witty. |
Putrescent smell of egg on egg Amongst small traces of stank hash Play quaint pranks on your nasalway As you stand in a winding line Of lost and found souls waiting with The slightest bit of obnoxious Anticipation a slap of Grisly fat against cold plastic. |