Ode to Jo's Subway Career

Is this a SUBWAY sandwich before me,
The fresh bread toward my hand?
Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, yummy vision, sensible, as to touch and taste,
Or art thou a sammich of the mind,
In need of the mayo, pickles, tomatoes, lettuce,
hot peppers, lettuce, sardines, lettuce, shoe polish;
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
All on a tenderflakywhatthef***in crust,
Of Johnna's heat-oppressed brain...

Alas, poor Johnna, I knew her well,
No finer sammich artist there was, and none so dedicated.
"Colby or not colby: that is the question,"
She would most often ask to my frequent "what?" enquiries.
That last steak and cheese she made, now digested and no doubt excreted:
Her last great SUBWAY influence, without so much as a few pennies of tip,
And now she, too, is gone, fleeing back to the warming clutches
Of academia, a sandwich artist no more.

We hold these truths to be self-evident,
That each and every one is born with the unalienable rights,
Of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Higher Paychecks.
When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary
To overthrow the tyranny of the managerial yoke,
And the stings and errors of outrageous customers,
One must sound his or her barbaric "F*** OFF!"
And beat a hasty retreat.

But, O! the class bell tolls, I must be brief.
Oh, happy Budweiser, here is thy sheath!
In me rest and let me belch!