Oh, pickles, you sour little things,

With your briney taste that stings.

A rating of one, for you I despise,

Please stay away from my burger and fries.

Mean people, oh what a chore,

A two out of ten, you're such a bore.

From snarky comments to rude remarks,

I'd rather befriend a pack of hungry sharks.

Mouth breathers, a rating of three,

Your open mouths make me want to flee.

Can't you breathe through your nose instead?

The sound of your exhales fills me with dread.

People who ban dogs from the couch,

You get a four, oh what a grouch.

Let those pups snuggle, let them lay,

On the cushions, where they want to stay.

Heavy forks, a five on the scale,

Why must you weigh down every meal?

Do I need to lift weights while I eat?

Or can I at least have cutlery that feels light and neat?

The feel of felt or velvet, a six,

A touch that makes my skin do tricks.

Some find it cozy, some find it strange,

But for me, it's like running nails on a chalkboard range.

Squash, oh squash, a seven it gets,

With its odd shape and texture, no thanks, I confess.

Whether it's butternut or acorn delight,

I'll pass on this vegetable, day or night.

Cucumbers, an eight, they're not my taste,

Too crunchy, too watery, such a waste.

But in salads and sandwiches, they shall remain,

While I pick them out, it's all in vain.

Tight clothes, a nine, they constrict my style,

I prefer comfort, let loose for a while.

Give me room to breathe, to move around,

Not an outfit that has me feeling bound.

And lastly, grit in the bed, a perfect ten,

Oh, what a feeling to be scratched again.

No sandpaper sheets for this sleepy head,

I'll strive for smoothness instead.