The Ballad of Pastrami on Rye

Katz Deli where Harry met Sally,
she famous for an orgasm;
we placed our order and started
our gastronomic tourism.

New York’s food to savour,
Pastrami on Rye;
how such can be in favour
I still wonder why.

Beef mountains catch the eye,
weak hearts pound as;
our appetites deflate and die,
red-raw the round.

Bowls of pickles offer no relief
from the red lean
sandwiches filled beyond belief,
turning us green.

Green at the gills and ready to puke,
a conscious decision,
we must escape this culinary nuke,
this mad-meat mission.

Turning pale not wanting to heave
the waiter spotted our pallor;
offering a doggy bag route to leave?
Accepted, no time for valour.

Two blocks-up was our relief,
Pastrami in the trash;
a meat-meal so beyond belief,
our appetites as ash.

So much for our Deli-delight
and gastronomic purism;
it resulted in a culinary fright,
our gastronomic tourism.