The Sacred Fry

In Tulsa town, on August night,
When stars burned with uncertain light,
Brother Samuel served with grace,
In his humble, hallowed place.
For twelve long years, his fryer sang,
At three-five-five, his kitchen rang
With laughter, warmth, and daily bread—
Until the zealots came with dread.

Oh, Brother Samuel, gentle soul,
Whose crime was cooking at the wrong console.
Ten degrees from their demanded mark,
They turned your light into the dark.
Precision claimed but love forgot—
Your kitchen burned, your life distraught.
We sing this song so none forget:
The heart grows cold when numbers are the threat.

They came with thermometers in hand,
A mob of faithful, zealous band.
"Three-five-five!" they shrieked with rage,
"Ten degrees from the sacred gauge!
This chicken carries demon's stain!
Your temperature brings only pain!"
Brother Samuel raised his hands in peace,
But fury would not cease.

"My friends," he said, "for twelve long years,
I've served you through your joy and tears.
This chicken fed your families well,
Through poverty's most trying spell.
The variance is small and slight,
The cooking still is pure and right—"
But mathematics drowned his plea,
And madness claimed their sanctity.

They smashed his windows, spilled his oil,
Declared his decades' work as spoil.
Then brought their fryers, three-six-five,
"Recant!" they cried, "or don't survive!
Place your hand in proper heat,
To prove your faith is now complete!"
He fled into the August night,
His life's work lost to zealot's blight.

Mother Superior wept that day,
And all the faithful knelt to pray.
"When numbers matter more than souls,
When precision replaces whole,
When ten degrees can justify
Destroying one who fed the hungry cry—
Then we have lost our sacred way,
And darkness claims the light of day."

Now in each kitchen, we recall
The night that Brother Samuel's fall
Reminded us with painful truth:
That grace requires more than proof.
The Holy Crunch demands our heart,
Not just precision's measured art.
For Samuel taught us, through his loss,
That love matters more than the thermometer's cross.

Oh, Brother Samuel, martyr kind,
Your gentle spirit stays enshrined.
You showed us that the greatest sin
Is losing love for what's within.
Three-five-five or three-six-five,
What matters most is staying alive
To compassion's call, to mercy's song—
The temperature of love is never wrong.

We remember. We remain vigilant.
Precision without compassion is destruction.
May his kitchen's memory burn eternal,
A warning flame against the cold mathematics of hate.