Mustard or Ketchup, never shall he know:
Whether one or the other will his throat
Accept with greater pleasure or both revolt
The taste. Sandwiches, hotdogs, hamburgers,
Steak—one or the other he may only take.
Ketchup, the red dragon, shall the choice
Be made? Blood re and tangy on meat
Of deli here, running down the esophagus,
Glory shall enshrine. But if it spread down
Knuckle finger here, stain the dress of
Gentleman, no he cannot bear
The image of such disaster, or even red his hair.
No, he cannot choose such a life!
The consummation of devil will only
End in strife. But what of either or
In this world declared? Must choice
Come for either when the meat’s prepared?
Mustard, cool yellow sweet, shall the
Bun collect him in every crevice street?
The effects of either cannot outweigh the
Least: of condiments to choose for the
Glorious feast. But oh! the day when
Kings of glory come—they ask for
More when none is had, when there is
No sum. Without the choice meat
Shrivels there in driest heat,
The moist of flavor heals it all
With taste that none may beat.
With great despair he looks upon
His table at both waiting
For him to rip off the label.
“No condiment!” he does proclaim
“Shall enter my mouth here.” But overall
The man has the dry meat to
None compare—Oh, Lillian… care for

a burger?