Fast Food Pickles
How I hate those fast food pickles;
They sit in my stomach like a roll of nickels;
Eating away the protective lining;
Sentencing me to mild food dining.
Once they were green and fresh from stem;
But on this burger they look like phlegm;
Soft and mushy like a witch's curse;
(and ketchup only makes it worse)
Frogs might mate with them in spring;
If they were stoned, and the only thing
In sight, was this drunk cucumber;
I despise all foods that they encumber.
God, I hate those fast food pickles;
My blood runs cold and barely trickles;
Carefully searching ever; patty and bun,|
I hope to always find the ones;
The elusive and the sly;
Hide in there to multiply:
My pulse!
My eyes; their sockets leave
That taste!
My abdomen; starts to heave
My teeth go numb, my eyes reverse
I know, not even Hell is worse
Than the flavor
Of a fast food pickle
fast food pickle poetry poem david patrone