The line was as long as a Krankletromp's tail
so I stood, stood, stood, but to little avail.
The problem? A tourist.
A tortoise-y tourist.
A sluggish fuddnudler whose whining did bore us.
"I would not like white rice.
I would not like brown rice."
The snarp in her tone was anything but nice.
And the anger of me and the other-liners too
pushed the tourist outside and sped-up the queue.
Onwards we marched, pleased to bits with our pace,
and when I was next, these words spewed from my face:
While the scoop-scooper scooped, I stared full of love
at all the grilled sneetch piled high in the tub.
But my nose caught the scent of another rare treat—
a bin of delectably seasoned roast beast.
I asked for one meat.
Why, for two!
Ignoring the digestive impact I would rue.
And that's how I made-up a bowl of half-sneetch
and a just-as-big ladle serving of beast.
Quite happy, my bowl took a ride to Next Stop
where a woman was ready to spoon on the sauce.
And so tame were the tongues of the previous guests
that she grinned when I asked for a three-salsa mess.
"That one, and that one, and that one as well!"
while I gestured, as if I were casting a spell.
But when she was done, the rice still looked dry,
and I felt a small panic and darted my eyes.
I gazed at the sauces, sweat sliding down chin,
and screamed, "WAIT, MA'AM! WAIT!
ALL THREE SALSAS AGAIN!"
The worker's brow furrowed—
"Sir, are you quite sure?"
And I nodded insanely:
"Never in my life more."
Salsa 1, Salsa 2, and yes, Salsa 3!
As well as a mountain of white, plastic cheese.
"And a gooplet of cream," I said with good cheer,
"But no lettuce or corn 'cause that's not why I'm here."
It was now, while on line, I spotted the paste,
lumpy and green like an old Grinchy face.
Though the slime was as ugly and soft as my Crocs,
I knew in my heart that I must have this guac.
Before they could speak, I said, "'Course I'll pay more."
(As if I could live without goop mounds galore!)
And the spoonful was small, and not worth two bucks,
but to live life without it would simply be nuts.
"Plus one cup for water."
A bold-faced lie
disguising my thirst for Pibb Xtra with ice.
And with one swipe of card and balled-up receipt,
I slurped my first forkful after merely 10 feet.