In search of waffles on a Sunday morning,
past the fancy fucking little breakfast/brunch place,
deep in the heart of ritzy fucking suburbia,
with all the shallow chichi moneybags flocking outside
waiting their turn to then be waited on.

The well-healed, ill with their entitlement disease,
spending their self-indulgent hours on mindless driveled gossip
practicing their oh-so-precious affectations
in some sickly quaint little neighborhood haunt
that rots in the stench of its overpowering charm.

All the perfect husbands, with their perfect wives
and their perfect pampered darling brood -
with their perfect brown-bronzed skins
and their perfect pimpleless complexion,
forged of the finest stuff of man.

This is where the special people hang.
Maybe one day I'll be a special person.

Where are all the waffles?