The Cafeteria King

He struts the halls with mustard grin,

Snatching lunch trays, calling it a win,

Mocking the kids with tattered bread,

While his pockets grow and their stomachs beg.

He points at shades that aren’t his own,

Calls them names in a gravel tone,

As if a crayon box were crime,

And color itself a fault, not fine.

He pinches girls from lower rows,

Laughs at the flinch as if it shows

He holds some crown, a paper gown,

Glued from spit, already tearing down.

Even teachers duck their heads,

Principals tremble at what he says,

His rule of fear, of theft, of lies,

Built from lunches, built from sighs.

But one bright morning, voices blend,

The kids unite and find the end:

“Your reign is done, you’ve had your fun—

Pack your tray, you’re overrun.

And don’t come back. Not anyone.”