My car is constructed of pickles2.
It's wonderfully crunchy and sweet.
If ever I'm hungry while driving
I pull off a pickle1 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 bumpers3 and grille.
The hood's made of hamburger slices.
The gas tank is brimming with brine.
The doors are delectably4 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 auto5
in just a few too many meals
and now it won't budge6 when I start it;
it seems I have eaten the wheels.