Dreamspace Studio

as sung in the temple of the takeout gods, beneath the flickering light of the microwave halo

Verse I

O deep fryer of the heavens, hear my cry,
For I was given four, and three did I sanctify
With sauce so rich, so sticky-sweet,
A holy elixir poured from on high, complete.

Verse II

Garlic danced with chili flame,
A syrup-thick love with no shame.
Each dunk was a blessing, a flavor divine,
Until the cup ran dry—no more holy brine.

Chorus

Why, O sauce gods, must thy mercy run thin?
Why leave one roll to suffer for sin?
Bare and unbathed, yet brave in its plight,
The last spring roll faced the abyss of night.

Verse III

I held it gently, this soldier unsauced,
A casualty of capricious cost.
No drizzle, no dip, no garlic balm,
Just wrappers and whispers, and false calm.

Bridge

Yet even naked, it bore the spice,
Its crunch a psalm, its heat precise.
A martyr roll, a silent prayer,
Consumed with reverence, none to spare.

Final Chorus

Let this be known from wok to scroll:
I mourned the fate of that final roll.
Next time I’ll plead for double sauce,
Lest another brave bite meet such loss.

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