The Gimlet Eye

‘I SING the Burger Electric,” Walt Whitman famously wrote, in his famous collection, Burgers of Grass. As every Am. Lit. student knows, the hirsute songster soared to ever higher states of ecstasy as he contemplated the object of his love.

I am mad for the juice, white hot and luscious, the damp bun (I crave the damp bun), the slice of crisp onion also, the sliced crispness atop the quivering patty sits, not as a king sits, there is no hierarchy here, no ordering of fiefdoms and tyrannies, only the processed American-cheese food, melting in the cleavage of the burger, spread-eagled, offers up, it merges in mustard, ketchup, mayonnaise, pickle relish! Grease damping my chest hairs I yawp: This is miracle enough.

About the Author

Andrew Ferguson

Andrew Ferguson, a former columnist for NR, is a contributing writer at The Atlantic and a fellow at the American Enterprise Institute.

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‘I SING the Burger Electric,” Walt Whitman famously wrote, in his famous collection, Burgers of Grass. As every Am. Lit. student knows, the hirsute songster soared to ever higher states of ecstasy as he contemplated the object of his love.

I am mad for the juice, white hot and luscious, the damp bun (I crave the damp bun), the slice of crisp onion also, the sliced crispness atop the quivering patty sits, not as a king sits, there is no hierarchy here, no ordering of fiefdoms and tyrannies, only the processed American-cheese food, melting in the cleavage of the burger, spread-eagled, offers up, it merges in mustard, ketchup, mayonnaise, pickle relish! Grease damping my chest hairs I yawp: This is miracle enough.