Thou yet unravish'd apple of the earth,
Had thou been the issue of a tree, most
Would swear thou are what gave evil birth,
As some kind of Mephistophelean host,
To entice the stressed, as well as bored,
With your crunchy, oily, salty snare,  
A potato-y communion slice,
Where beauty is truth, truth's beauty there -
The facts of which can not be ignored.
If only one could just suffice.