Peanut Butter Saturdays

There's a hum in the wall and a buzz in the sky,
And the Wi-Fi's whispering, "We're watching you, guy."
The toaster's a traitor, the lamp's got a plan,
And the fridge is in league with the government van.

The peanut butter's poisoned, the butter's a lie,
And even your toothbrush is spying—oh my!
The football is evil, the films are all fake,
And joy is a donut they'll never let you bake.

But once, on a Saturday, golden and free,
My brother and I made toast, just he and me.
We'd slather on butter (don't skip it, you clown!),
Then peanut butter thickly, all gooey and brown.

No allergies, warnings, or labels in red,
Just laughter and crumbs and the smell of warm bread.
The world didn't buzz with invisible fear,
And no one was tracking our breakfast that year.

Now screens flicker poison, and voices all shout,
And I just want one morning where joy isn't doubt.
So I curse at the world with its secrets and spies—
And dream of that toast, and my brother's small eyes.

Maybe the butter's still waiting, who knows?
For the kid with a knife and a nose full of toast.