Had we but salt enough, and lime,
This coyness, sandwich, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To eat, and pass the feeding day;
Thou on my shiny, porcelain plate
Shouldst heaven find. I, in a state
Of hunger would complain. I’d eat
You ten years ere Baker Steve.
But you must not, please, refuse,
For breaded or grilled I cannot choose.
My vegetable toppings should grow
To adorn thy bun, enhance thy glow.
A hundred years should go to praise
Thy gloppy layer of mayonnaise.
Two hundred to adore thy breast,
Its tender poultry still the best.
An age at least to every grain
Of pepper in thy breaded mane.
For, sandwich, you deserve this state,
Nor would I eat at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
The manager’s voice: “Get out of here!”
But yonder before all us lie
Desserts of vast eternity.
Thy taste shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy golden arches, shall sound
My loving ode; then rats will try
That long preserv’d divinity,
And thy pristine state will turn to dust,
And into dirt, my hunger, lust.
The trash can’s not a pallid place,
But none I think do there embrace.

Therefore, now, while thou hast taste,
While breading and mayo sit ere a paste,
While thy bun hath yet to hear the tale
Of aging and becoming stale,
Now let us dine here while we may;
For so my love becomes my prey,
And now I will at once devour
Thy essence and thy nurturing power.
Let us roll thy yellow wrapper, and all
My napkins, up into one ball;
And tear our hunger with rough strife
Through the fast food part of life.
Thus, though we cannot make thy bun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.