Wotsit all about?

Crisps have become to me
An emblem of the sodium greed
of modern man

We ram our hands in plastic saline bladders
And shove the salty starchy stuff
down and down and down within

Ooh

This continues
Until every pluckable morsel
is gone

Then,
Gullets yaw open wide
Expressing cheese and onion odour
And the particular remnants are drunk like fluids
No, is the crispy crunchy moment over?

Until a second call is heard
A golden, starchy, savoury curl
[smack lips]
The unmistakable Quaver
MADE by machine for man to savour—

And made indeed?
Its perfect central spiral
Betrays—could it be?—intelligent design?
An attachment to the creative divine?

Golden ratio… of Golden Wonder.