Sandwich Man

“Hit me up when you’ve wrote a book,” so they say so casually.
Why not open up a sandwich shop and take two halves of stale white bread and stuff cheap factory meats between, instead.
Everybody wants a sandwich, everybody wants a pamphlet with a guide to all the flavors, secret ingredients, to them mere trivialities.
Rather that than meet the muscled bull, the grinding gears of the factory that ground him into beef, or the man that works there overtime with lifeless half-there eyes, casually cast aside.
“No, please make me a sandwich, it’s easier to eat, maybe not now but when I’m hungry it could be a tasty treat.”
F*ck you and your appetite, I couldn’t give a damn, hear me clearly you gluttonous fucks, I’m not your sandwich man.