Poem potatoes,
I cannot dig them out
or present them at table
for the admiration of my greedy fellows,
the soil of me is raw just now
word tubers withered and sour
wrinkled old men faces survey me
with their squinted many sprouted eyes
and defy me to do better,
or produce a mealy crop of no particular flavour
a bitter harvest,
best to leave things fallow then
rest my growing ground
and see what fills the bucket next time round