Ode to a Potato

Oh, potato;

how much could I love thee?

Let me count the ways:

chipped, sautéed, mashed;

bashed, hashed, or ketchup dashed;

baked, faked, wedgied, caked;

au gratin, replacing the lemons in tarte tatin;

fried, roasted, boiled, or raw;

croquetted, saladed, dropped upon the floor;

swimming strongly with leeks in soup,

bubbled and squeaked

in an inedible gloop;

jacketed, still packeted,

grated, unplated,

(a style, I think, that is so overrated);

curried, unhurried,

waffled, omeletted, loaded,

sweet, sour, by tomatoes goaded;

weekly, daily, by the hour,

my potato love thou hast such power.


No, I shall not eat

my potato love;

as long as there are

stars to see in sky’s above;

I shall always keep you near to me;

your earthy ways do so endear to me;

by my side your hide will stay;

for ever and a lifelong day –

or at least, perhaps, maybe, until,

thou too muchly hast decay,

and the whiff of you

dost make me ill.


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