B.O.A.T. G.O.A.T.

A long time ago, in a town then named Sandwich,

A man named John Mantagu dared to dream large.

Amidst a game of furious poker,

His appetite grew and he sought to recharge.

Removing himself from the table? Forbidden!

Instead, he called servants to fetch him some bread.

In the middle he asked for fresh salted meat,

And voila! The first sandwich anyone had spread.

Fast forward from that year, 1762,

The sandwich evolved through illustrious form.

Two slices of bread with anything twixt them,

Cold, toasted, long, short, thick, thin, dressed, stacked, and warm.

First eaten by aristocrats all over England,

Soon came to the masses so they too could know.

What delights could be had with such simple construction,

Bread on each end binding flavors that glow.

A friend of mine recently asked me to write,

This poem about one particular type.

Named thusly the B.O.A.T. by folk with good taste.

Not this one: he can’t cook - his IG all hype.

But as friends should do, we answer the call,

And in a few verses entertain and produce,

Whether requested order too tall,

Or beard of requestor be orange profuse.

So cheers to this sandwich beginning with bacon,

Olives, arugula, tomato…the B.O.A.T!

Three-quarters vegan, what happened, so close,

No worries: the man who consumes is the G.O.A.T.