Sizzle: An ode to fast food kitchens

A poem inspired by the summer I spent working as a fry cook at a Sonic Drive-In

The patties clatter down upon the grill,
the sharp percussion laying down a beat,
my arms still stiff from walk-in freezer's chill,
I reach down, slowly turning up the heat.

The french fries hiss soprano in their grease,
while chicken sings a solo all its own.
Here I compose my fatty masterpiece,
While crisco hums its velvet, soothing tones.

The timers on the friers shriek their part,
a note that pierces right into the brain,
while mozzarella sticks sing to the heart,
and do their best to take away my pain.

Crescendoes swell around me, and within,
a song that seems to take my breath away,
until my boss gives me an ugly grin,
and tells me that I have to earn my pay.