Crisp is in the mountains,
Not kin with the sea,
Empty roads,
Not filled with busy bees,
Blank land forever reaching,
Not buildings forever creeping,
Wind is our sound,
Not sirens that can always be found,
Farm land is our job,
Not something you can rob,
Our sweat and our blood go into the dirt
Not by force, but by our work,
You see a potato, we see home,
Not some random dinner which you can let go,
I know you think the apple is great,
But it has a lot on it's plate,
And I'm sure it doesn't care for you,
As much as this warm potato stew,
Which was grown here in Idaho,
just for me and you...