The Last Supper

I buy something generic In order to fit in Half my apple pie Goes straight into the bin I am nervous out of my mind Can just barely keep my lunch down I inspect the cull But I can't see the cows for all the beef Briskets, loins, ribs, chucks And fucking veal I leave my backpack under my table when I leave With the contraption peeking out of it The fuse lays like a viper in my tracks And the detonator is ready to be hit