Pickles

     
So here it is, you asked for a poem about pickles,
It will be a mess when it trickles down the microphone,
The jokes may be a little fickle and not as good as Don Rickles,
If you remember the old sicko who used to tickle people’s funny bones.

I expect to get paid a nickel for every time I rhyme,
So if you count in the previous line – that adds up to a dime,
And though I’m still wondering why you wanted a piece about a veggie,
I wasn’t sure if I could write something and make it a little edgy.

You know I don’t like them in my sandwiches or hamburgers,
It might be because I have a little OCD and Asperger’s,
But if you want a verse to be diverse then I won’t encumber,
When a pickle is just a vinegar immersed cucumber.

My heart drops when I shop for groceries and you text “get a jar”,
And I’m like “Damn! Why doesn’t she just ask for a chocolate bar”.
For a while I stand in the isle with an awkward smile trying to decide,
Which kind you had in mind when there’s so many I go cross-eyed.

Which ones? Whole? Halves? Or spears? By now I’m in tears,
I can hear the voices in my head I start to cover up my ears,
There’s so many choices I don’t know what to pick I begin to feel a chill,
And as I’m driving home alone I think, what the hell is Kosher Dill?

Don’t get me wrong, I like my cucumbers every now and then,
I enjoy them in my salads and can have them again and again,
But when they’re dipped in vinegar it’s like flat acidic suds,
Which by then I’m not at all convinced by my taste buds.

I take them out of my burgers and give them to you like a prize,
I may have eaten one but I can see the happiness in your eyes,
Then when you eat them I notice your grin is a little devilish,
And yet for some odd reason I like my hot dogs with sweet relish.

That'll be $2.55 USD please.