O indiginous tuber to Peru,
Now in nations' daily stews,
From the Polar South to Timbuktu,
Ranked with rice, wheat and maize,
Oh staple potatoe
You grace our table.

We plant seed spuds,
Red, yellow or brown,
Harvest the new ones,
The remainder mound
To thrive in leisure,
As buried treasure.

Heel the spud *****,
Unearth your trove,
A gatherer's surprise
To woo true love.

We slice, dice and mash,
Roast, deep-fry and bake.
It's not an egg,
It'll never break.

     Medium-rare, please.
     And make mine a baked.
     Oh, and don't forget the butter,
     Oh, and sour-cream, just in case.”

It hasn't got *** appeal,
What you see is true,
But make no mistake,
I swear by what's holy in taste,
It only has eyes for you.

Pharmaceutically,
It soothes,
Burns, itches, puffy eyes,
Migraines and headaches.

Make a stamp,
Make silver shine,
Clean your windows with its brine.
And potatoe muffins are simply divine.

When blight strikes,
When crops don't thrive,
Many starve,
Many have died.

So, I raise this toast
To the lofty Tuber,
And I dedicate this Ode,
To the one,
The only:
*Mr. Potatoe,
This bud's for you.

I was standing at the corner
Of Yonge and Bedlam Ave.,
When I spied a chap across the way,
The image of my Dad.

He had one thumb in his pocket,
The fingers hung outside.
His other arm craddled a book,
As often in his life.

His weight was shifted to the right,
With head cocked to the side;
He wore his cap over one eye,
Tweed jacket open wide.

He raised his head,
As I did mine,
Looked to me and nodded;
He smiled and touched
The edge of his brim,
I did the same as him.

We crossed with the light.
He passed
And went
Where he belongs;
Me, to the library,
My book was overdue.

When sick,
Life ***** stones.
But ******* stones
Beats daisies.

Hey, aren't you
That son-of-a *****
Whose mother jumped the wall.
Yea! You know who you are.
I spotted you hanging on the corner
Through the windshield of my car.
Were you talking conspiracy,
And planning your next job;
Dealing girls, drugs and guns,
Looking goth macabre.

You know who you are.
I saw you look right back at me
Through the side window of my car.
You were talking to your buddies,
I couldn't hear what you said,
I'm convinced it wasn't good,
By the tatoos on your head.

Yes, you know who you are.
You're still idley standing there,
In the rearview of my car.

They've gathered at his daughter's house,
I passed cars pulling to the curb;
The patriarch has been replaced,
His chair now sits usurped.

Will someone raise a glass to toast him,
Recount some craic to roast him?
Praise his assets,
Shush his regrets,
Strum his unplayed guitar.

They'll share feasts on his bench,
Conceive on handmade beds,
Take down a book from his many shelves,
And talk as though he's there,
Sleeping, unaware.

     What was it that he said?
     He talked of love a lot.
     Did he get it right?
     He shared what he got.
     Did well for a sot.
     He could turn a *****,
     Write a verse,
     Right a wrong,
     Could dialogue with who knows what,
     And if he couldn't fix it,
     We knew we were *******.

They just might go to sleep tonight,
And dream as though he's there,
Still sitting in his chair.

It's better I give
While life's within;
The situation's
Sin-win-win-sin.
I must appear as an altruist,
But scratch, you'll find a hedonist.
And so I give more than receive,
The pleasure's in giving,
I'm not deceived.
Been one all along;
It feels right to be wrong.
Admittedly so.
I'm a hedonist.
I amass such joy
Reaping the benefits.