Had Jimmy John's for dinner today.
PART I
It is an old submariner
And it disgusts three of three
by thy decayed lettuce and rotten rye
Now wherefore poiseneth thou me?
The rancid meat is all inside,
And should go to the bin;
The bread is wet, my gut’s upset
From this culinary sin.
Chewing what feels like rubber band,
'That was quite shit,' quoth me.
'Throw up! exit me, grey-beard food!'
Eftsoons my lunch left me.
I could see chunks of molding rye—
The kitchen stank of swill,
And left my hungry mouth defiled:
My teeth stuffed with rotten dill.
The sandwich was as hard as stone:
I cannot choose but fear;
For I spotted a patch, cyan,
On the submariner.
'The sauce was smeared, the onion sered,
Scarily opened top
Ever the berk, I saw the gill,
Within the cloaking top.
My gaze came up into the cleft,
Thus, I shrieked like a banshee!
There was a blight, and naught was right
For all was moldy.
Dryer and nigher every day,
Till into my mouth at noon—'
The rot infest the chicken breast,
And grew its rancid commune.
The blight hath infested it all,
Leaving not fresh is she;
Fest’ring in food until it goes
As toxic as ackee.
My tongue distressed, the meat abscessed,
And I cannot choose but tear;
And thus spate up that ancient scran,
The blight-dyed pickle spear.
And now the worm’s mass came, and he
Was tyrannous and wrong:
He struck with his o'ertaking lings,
And succuss gave me twang.
Despair at last with disease’ scow,
As who dry heaved with yell and woe
Still dreads the hero as his foe,
And horror rears his head,
The grippe drove fast, my face aghast,
And soured rye I fled.
And now there came both cyst and crow,
And it grew wondrous mold:
And “spice,” like lye, came burning eye,
As green as emerald.
And what I shrift, the filthy gifts,
Did send a dismal sheen:
All manner of vile yeasts I ken—
The spice was all between.
That spice was here, that spice was there,
That spice was all around:
My gut then growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound!
On shelf I saw the Albacore,
In a can it came;
As if it had been a miracle,
I praised it in God's name.
The canned tuna I ne'er had eat,
All ground and sound and blue.
The can did split with a thunder-fit;
The op’ner pierced on through!
And a deep hunger sprung in my mind;
The Albacore did follow,
And salty spray, for good this day,
Came smelling like sweetest gateau!
In mist or cloud, new hope it sowed,
I yearned for ethers fine;
Whiles all the sight, through can bound tight,
Glimmered the slick oil-shine.
God damn thee, old submariner,
To the fiends, to Hell! I swore.
Wait, shit! My grip—the can just slipped.
I dropped the ALBACORE.
