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One lived to be five and ate some bad bologna sausage one night and was dead before morning.

You may walk about all day in Bologna without seeing a pound of Bologna sausage.

Bologna sausage, cheese, fruit, and wine of two sorts contented him.

Jean Ficelle was pacing back and forth, within a space of about twenty yards; constantly passing in front of his comrade, to whom he spoke now and then, while he took huge bites from an enormous piece of bread and from a bologna sausage, alternately.

The greater part of a link of bologna sausage lay upon the table, a remnant of a previous meal.