I get my luncheon fare, and I’m ready to eat.
But when I taste I’m sure: It ain’t been near the heat.
It isn’t even warm--
this ain’t a dining norm.

Feels like it came in from a storm…
middle of a winter freeze.
Reminds me of meals back in the dorm
that came out from a chilly kitchen.

My lunch, awful cold—
it’s as if an iceberg has hit my taste buds.
My lunch, awful cold—
temperatures’ gotta be below fifty.

Shell out for a lunch that tastes like a moraine?
Is it possible to get tongue chilblains?
This food is hard as stone; feels like an ice-cream cone.

I oughta be shovin’ on, far from this eatery.
Did they put the oven on back there in the frigid kitchen?

My lunch, gosh it’s cold;
it’s so icy that I cannot even taste much.
My lunch, goddam cold!
For my gullet I fear: cold be risky.

A shame it hadn’t known the cauldron of a crone.

I oughta be shovin’ on, far from this eatery.
Didn’t put the oven on in the kitchen, a foregone
conclusion simply.

My lunch, hot? No, cold!
I have got to throw it out, this frozen-waste sup.
My lunch, down the hole
of the disposal, and I’m still hungry.