The waffle god never taught me to swim
through his crashing waves of authentic maple syrup,
and my butter pad hat slowly begins to melt
and blind my eyes
as my thoughts run fiery hot
with pulsing liquid rage
for the contempt I have
about this futile trial.

I'm happier dead and drowned
afloat face down
atop the vast, vacuous,
and viscous liquid sugar
that has thoroughly coated
my lungs and my throat.