The preacher of the breakroom raises his hand and shouts:
The snack machines are full of brightly-colored and delicious death in shiny crinkly packets.
Just push a button.
They fit in your hand, so easy to tear open, puffing out rich scents.
Turn away, turn away. Don’t breathe it in!
They confess their ill intent right there on the ingredients list.
Poison! Poison!
Even the water… flour… sugar… all unclean and tainted by the industrial processing and cooking and packaging and delivery systems.
You are not the consumer. You are the consumed.
The machine wobbles… and falls on the preacher.