There once was a tube of Pringles so neat,
With crisps all stacked in a perfectly treat.
“Once you pop,” they’d say,
“You won’t stop”—and they may,
For one turns to ten before you can beat.

They’re uniform, crisp, and oddly precise,
With a salty curve that’s rather nice.
No broken despair,
Just a stack waiting there,
Like a snack engineered to entice.

So beware of that can in your hand,
It may not go quite as you planned—
For you’ll reach in again,
And again… and again,
Till it’s empty (though that wasn’t planned!).