My car is constructed of pickles.
It's wonderfully crunchy and sweet.
If ever I'm hungry while driving
I pull off a pickle to eat.

The engine is made out of gherkins.
The dashboard's an extra-large dill.
The windows and wipers are kosher 
as well as the bumpers and grille.

The hood's made of hamburger slices.
The gas tank is brimming with brine.
The doors are delectably salty.
The stickshift is simply divine.

There's one little problem I'm having.
I'm sure you would know what I mean
if ever you saw this contraption;
my marvelous pickle machine.

I guess I've included my auto
in just a few too many meals
and now it won't budge when I start it;
it seems I have eaten the wheels.

--Kenn Nesbitt

This poem appears in the book
My Hippo Has the Hiccups