I thought my life wouldn't commute
Under the soil my roots were a coil
a knife will have sheared me before the simmering boil
My skin will embrace the aluminum foil
a blade will peel me before the deafening screeches of my roots
I never considered
How will I live on the platter?
A waffle fry?
Fries in a scatter?
A baked potato?
Probably artificially flaked before I get to choose in any case.