Don’t ever forget that pickles are chipped

Under carefully controlled conditions.

The cucumber – if you can call it that – 

Remains under delicate pressure along its length

As the blades descend like guillotines,

Decapitating the headless fruit.

Nobody wants a mushy pickle chip.

Relish is for hot dogs

And is sold that way.

Flat or ridged, our heroic chip must be coin of the realm

Beneath the fried cholesterol patty

Floating in mayonnaisic anonymity.

It must be round.

The pickler knows his art.

Trust in his standard of quality.