The Second Crumbing

Turning and turning in the bubbling fryer
The cruller knows no crueler hour;
Buns pull apart; their centers are not holed;
Mere gluttony is loosed upon the world,
The blood-incited appetite is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of gastronomy is purged;
The best lack all confection, while the worst
Are filled with passion fruit and fake whipped cream.

Surely some indigestion is at hand;
Surely the second crumbing is at hand.
The second crumbing! Hardly are those words out
When a vile recipe from Patisserie Bizarre
Troubles my taste buds: somewhere on a crud-stained tablecloth
A shape of a croissant with the texture of Wonder Bread,
A glaze as pale and pasty as kindergarten glue
Is dripping off its sides, while all about it
Flutter shadows of the indignant epicures.
The flavor fades again; but now I know
That half a century of junk-snack addiction
Was vexed to nightmare by the fast-food corporations,
And what stale brioche, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards the microwave to be warmed?

For the parodied poem, William Butler Yeats' "The Second Coming," see

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