We started running with "pickle puns" in another thread, and that (sadly) led to this. It could easily be a 3 or 4-chord song, but I'm not bright enough to do that so it's still a poem:
PICKLED NONSENSE
Once upon a time, before there was a fridge,
Folks preserved their food, not to waste a smidge.
They salted stuff down,
They laid stuff up,
They canned it in a Mason jar, or they had it pickled.
CHORUS: So it could be a Bick's, or it might be a Vlasic,
It may be a Heinz … always a classic.
Whatever kind of pickle, any might prefer,
It all started out with someone's mother's care.
Different kinds of food, will take to a pickle,
Each to his taste, each kinda fickle.
With vinegar in hand,
Cloves in the other,
It was kitchen science at its best, the lab belonged to mother.
CHORUS: So it could be a Bick's, or it might be a Vlasic,
It may be a Heinz … always a classic.
Whatever kind of pickle, any might prefer,
It all started out with someone's mother's care.
The label says "Sweet Mixed", everything's in there,
Cukes and cauliflower, even little onions.
Bread and butter's always good,
Gherkins add some flair,
To an everyday meal at home, just ordinary fare.
CHORUS: So it could be a Bick's, or it might be a Vlasic,
It may be a Heinz … always a classic.
Whatever kind of pickle, any might prefer,
It all started out with someone's mother's care.
They've even pickled pigs feet, and other parts as well,
And pickled eggs are common, some claim they taste just swell,
Me I'll take a crunchy dill,
A snack for my tummy,
Anything that's pickled, somehow's always yummy.
CHORUS: So it could be a Bick's, or it might be a Vlasic,
It may be a Heinz … always a classic.
Whatever kind of pickle, any might prefer,
It all started out with someone's mother's care.
This is about as idiotic as it gets, eh?
