Industrially made,
Old faithful, poor man's lasagna,
Probably sat there for hours;
Souless in the large warmer silver tray,
With the rest of the mass produced meals,
Looking handsome and waiting ,
As it can only do,
For this dirty hungry old working man,
Too beat down to work the kitchen nor willing to spare the time,
I imagine a greasy fat chef in the back, somewhere,
Slaving away, sweating in the oily haze, working the stoves and ovens,
Giant pots shimmering,brown gravy bubbling, as the fat sizzles and jets across the room
He'd rather be somewhere,
Doing something,
Smoking a cheap cigarette,
Having a cold lager,
God...