The sun's goin' down and it's time to make some dinner.
What you gonna have that's bound to be a winner?
Rustle up the pan, try to see what's still kicking,
can't really order out 'cause your wallet's gotten thinner.
Everything from top shelf to bottom is gray and expired,
sadder than the look on Milton's face when he got fired.
Open up the fridge, though consequences may be dire
as you hold your nose and see what may also be retired.
Looks like you're in luck, oh wait no you're not,
your pasta sauce is green and your milk is one big clot,
your ham is pink stink plasma and your cheese's got dots,
so many varieties of fungal foods from Botany Bay to planet rot.
You ain't no ecologist, and it ain't interesting or funny
probing loaves of bread for spores unfriendly to your tummy.
Eyes gettin runny from the assault of the scummy.
Grab what's in the freezer, shut it up, and hope it's money.
Nothing but a wad of beef, still good like the use of chief
to say what's up to friends, pray that it won't later give you the bends.
Season it and mash it up with the one good egg,
no time to think about breakfast tomorrow, dinner must be made.
Stack it all up into the pan, lookin like a cartoon igloo,
turn up the jam box, put it in the oven, and let it do what it do.
An hour or more later, time to bust out a few brews
the meatloaf still ain't ready, but your stomach's startin to moo.
Get on that liquid diet dr. oz has been short sellin
while you ponder all the things that in your head is dwellin'
like why does it always rain while you are asleep, and if you can
rain check your bad luck, roll it into a mortgage, and then sell it.
The jam's almost done like red head women in the sun
so you get up off your ass and check baking tray one.
It's time to take a seat again, hold the fork in your fist
while you shovel home another late night meat wad dish.
