Head in the Oven: The Times are Hungry

3 nights I’ve sat here.
My stomach grumbling,
My only sustenance, McNuggets and bad tea.
I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.
Talking cats? Love Hot Herb?
The Mayor’s rôtisserie grabs my attention.
Chicken revolving on a skewer, juicy glistening skin,
My own Homer Simpson moment, a reference you obviously wouldn’t get.
If I smoked I’d be on my 400th by now.
Roll ups probably, fingers stained yellow.
I’ve tried Sylvia, really I have.
You've lost me with your lizard, you’ve confused me with your cow milk an inch thick.
Maybe the answer is obvious?
Who was the unlucky hero?
So many questions I could ask had you not stuck your head in the oven
Daddy perhaps? Or Ted?
I’m intrigued by your world of rotating chickens and burnt crones.
Your obsession with all things German.
Was it a sense of Teutonic order that attracted you?
Rigid conformity to rules.
So many questions I could ask.
We could go for a bite, maybe a Bratwurst,
I could be that Polack friend.
I guess we’ll never know.
Your head like the chicken is in the oven.