Address to a Chicago-Style Hot Dog (With apologies to Robert Burns)

How fair your poppy-seeded face,
Great chieftain of the sandwich race!
Above them all, you take your place
With neon relish!
Your plentitude of savory grace
Words can't embellish.

The mouth with flavors grand you fill,
With every gustatory thrill
Of mustard smear and spear of dill
And celery salt;
Tomato slice and onion hill-
But nary a fault!

Cucumber slices, and, most chief,
A hot dog of Vienna beef
Not grilled or roasted, but, in brief,
Most seemly steamed.
A finer dish, in my belief
Cannot be dreamed.

Though many a crude and vulgar race
To their own deep and dark disgrace
A hot dog's glory may deface
With ketchup's grue,
None from Chicago is so base
As so to do!

Or on poor substitutions feed
With nary a single poppy seed!
The pepper's piquant grace you need
For rapture true.
No condiment of lesser breed
Will ever do!

Benighted heathens miss the thrill
Who fry or boil or roast or grill
Or this ambrosia's flavor kill
With French fry sauce.
True gourmets at such vileness will
Their cookies toss!

How pitiful the numbers vast
Whose lesser frankfurter repast
Would leave Chicagoans aghast
At such sad fare,
Of our dog's glory, unsurpassed
Bereft and bare!

You powers, which make mankind your care
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Chicago wants no hot dog bare
Of such rich flavor
As our own hot dog's virtue rare
Will let us savor!


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