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.