On my screen, every household seems blessed
with a breakfast of pancakes and fruit,
but the kid’s late for school
and the mom needs no fuel
save for coffee or (BritBox) some tea,
so two mouthfuls are eaten at best
as protagonists scurry and scoot . . .
Oh, the stuff that they waste on TV.
Next, I’ll drool at the sight of a meal –
pasta, veggies, a loaf of hot bread –
a guy’s made for his date.
She says, “Mmm, that smells great,”
and there’s kissing and chests popping free
as the entrée begins to congeal
and they feast on each other instead . . .
Oh, the stuff that they waste on TV.
Plus, each show has a sauce that gets burned;
or a pie that gets thrown in a fight;
or a cake that – good God! –
is smashed flat by some clod;
or a produce stand gorgeous to see
till of course the whole thing’s overturned
in a chase, melons flung from a height;
or a banquet for Gran's jubilee
where a terrible secret’s discerned
amid gasps and – farewell, appetite! –
all the guests leave in haste
after barely a taste.
So then, always, it falls upon me
to atone for such sins, and I’ve learned
to run straight to the fridge for a bite.
Oh, the waist that they stuff on TV.