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