Santa's Edible Boot

Here's the draft for my "free-verse poem" about one of my favorite foods...

SANTA'S EDIBLE BOOT

By: Michael T. Flanders

The deep fried smell of death brings my nose to life,
walking into yet another Clown's House of Sin.
Machines clank together, cooking, re-cooking
and embalming my desired menu item.
Laced with an undetectable addictive seasoning,
I repeat my order for the millionth time in my twenty-three years of life.

Hooked since age four,
I've been shooting up processed meat in front of the likes of
Barney, Elmo, and the Red Power Ranger,
all with judgmental grimaces...

Placing my order I step in line with the rest of the sheep,
awaiting the McPimp's generous dose of greasy ecstasy.
Time ticks by,
every second building up the anticipation
for when my next hit will be acquired.

Finally, the "food" container is thrown in front of me,
my excitement barely held.
I reach for it like a scene out of
Raiders of the Lost Ark,
awaiting the bolder of Barnum and Bailey attire
to squash the hopes of my filthy habit.

The box is obtained and I flee to the back of the
McOpium Den to indulge my appetite.
Heavens can be heard falling
and my soul can be heard dying
as I open the lid of my
Chicken McNuggets.

Portraying the form of edible footwear,
my hunger wins out yet again,
forcing my hand to start shoveling in the
overcooked chunks of meat.

The beast has been fed,
the monkey removed from my back,
only until the next day when the Golden Arches
beckon me once more.
Damn you, Chicken McNuggets,
for my voice of reason is no match
against your delicious poultry bits of
death.