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Mar 2013
Inside my ears, away from the moving mouth, jolly potatoes in sprout.
they sing and sway in my golden fertile valley of wax,
and when the moving mouth outside  is talking of her dead cat,
they sing merry tunes that make me smile and laugh,
but then they hear the mountain thunder which is her slap.
The village elder potatoe watches for the wind and hail,
and the fire in sky which is her red polished nail.
This wise potato's beard protects his flock,
She trims his beard when she cuts my ear hair off,
And when her eye stares inside,
The bravest potatoes go fight and die,
" You need to clean out your ears, you haven't heard a word I said..."
Hundred potaytets safe, ten hero potatoes dead,
There is no crying for the Spartan spud,
Who the Cyclops had smooshed to mud,
For their bodies dry up into chips,
That crunch out the sound of an angry ditz,
They never stop,
Ever since I was six,
And my wedges, singing me a ditty,
Most charming and beautiful in all my city,
I giggled to " hey hoo ***** boy, let's roll in the wax"
And everyone at the funeral stared at me aghast.
Oh well, maybe they are right, and I a fool,
For educating myself within my golden school,
But I know first came my laugh, and it was alive,
graves it could not attach, so it reversed within to survive,
They sing and sway in my fertile valley of wax,
The village elder potato plods on with his staff,
Giving thanks to the wax builder,
And like a maestro, directs the valley to give the builder back his laugh,
And a young potato stick in a long dress,
And a sleeveless shirt,
Sings the solo in golden concert,
" they hate me baby, they make me baby, and I'm gold and they are dirt,
It is they my baby that are absurd,
Oooh oh, boss me around my king, your laughter makes me sing."

And when my name was wrong in the obituary of my father I began to laugh,
And at me everyone was mad,
My ear potatoes sing and dance,
In the golden valley of wax,
And the village elder potato plods on with his beard and staff.
And there is no more mountain thunder, no more slap,
No more Cyclops's eye,
The Spartan spuds are farmers now and don't have to die.
And my laughter flows out like a river from the  golden canal inside.
Keith J Collard
Written by
Keith J Collard  43/M/Dedham, MA
(43/M/Dedham, MA)   
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