I once knew a fickle pickle

I once knew a fickle pickle

Who was prone to changing his mind.

He could never agree on a sandwich

Where he'd prefer to bide his time.

And his loyalty to condiments

Was ephemeral, yet hellish.

At first, he'd go with the mayo.

Then, end up with the relish.

No deli meat would satisfy.

Just refined charcuterie.

But no sooner would I turn around

And he'd be laying with the brie.

And the fickle pickle went about

As if no bun would care.

Yet, how could buns not notice

When said sandwich was left bare?

So he joined a jar of others

That seemed to be akin.

Since his allegiance changed so quickly,

Why not be with those like him?

Good riddance, fickle pickle.

You're better off alone.

Of course you'd claim the vinegary depths

And think that it was "home."