They serve not naught toxic chow:
There's waste on the griddle;
If it's ate, inflates your middle.
Big Mac made from a diseased cow--
Well, it might taste pleasin',
But arteries it's squeezin'.
Portions aren't small;
Dreck, coli for one and all.
They appear on every block,
Serving naught but toxic chow.

What's that you feel squirming
In fries? Death throes of injured vermin?
Bacon made from diseased sow
That looks like rat outlay,
Not sprinkles, dressin' up your sundae.

Worms in burgers, vermin hair. . .
Eeuw! meal is this fare.
Pick-nose fry cook don't wash;
They serve not naught toxic chow.

It seems something's engaged
In a death struggle under your tongue.
You're enraged, thinking that
It might be a mangy rat,
Which would complement the dung
That goes every time you eat here into your mouth.
If it's rat, it squirms like a cat's in there.
"Perhapths," you lisp, "it's a mouthe!"
Pukin's on the menu now.

What's chopped up by abattoir's blade
Is frequently decayed.

Better think before you plow
Into the gravy at KFC, e.g.; the grave's
Where you might land
If you keep downing this fast viand.
Leave before veins are blocked.
A pox on this toxic chow.