I have been in mourning for over a month. I have dressed myself in nothing but black and fasted for hours and hours. Why? Because Benson, my school cafeteria, has terminated their curly fries. Curly fries made both my lunch and dinner of every day and I have come near starving since their death. While William Blake's famous poem revealed the horrors of the late eighteenth century's London streets, filled with homeless child labors, poverty and disease, I feel that the poem is a much better exemplification of Benson without curly fries. Please enjoy my own adaptation of William Blake's "London," and if it makes you smile, even just a little bit, share this article.

Benson Without Curly Fries

I wander past each taken seat,
Near where the long lines of Benson do flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
For every cry of every man,
Laments the loss of Curly Fries,
In every voice, in every ban,
The manacles of straight fries make all weep.
How the Hungry Students cry,
Every Late Tapingo appalls,
And the Hapless Luncher's sigh
Runs in blood through Benson's halls.
We wait in lines, but to no avail
How the Curly Master's curse
Blasts the sophomore student's tear
To watch the plague of straight fries take Curly in his hearse.