O for love of Branston Pickle
I'd eat you in a cornfield,
Spread you onto peanut brickle
And 'gainst my enemies wield
The awful taste that from you falls,
The stink of cow and horsey stalls.
A Mad Lib Poem is written by asking an innocent bystander (my wife) for words without telling her the context. Hence the nonsensical poem. Oh, and Branston Pickle is actually a wonderful thing. I love it. But the thought of it on Peanut Butter Brickle? That's just gross.