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francie-lynchPoems
O indiginous tuber to Peru, Now in nations' daily stews, From the Polar South to Timbuktu, Ranked with rice, wheat and maize, Oh staple potatoe You grace our table. We plant seed spuds, Red, yellow or brown, Harvest the new ones, The remainder mound To thrive in leisure, As buried treasure. Heel the spud ***** Unearth your trove, A gatherer's surprise To woo true love. We slice, dice and mash, Roast, deep-fry and bake. It's not an egg, It'll never break.      ***Medium-rare, please.      And make mine a baked.      Oh, and don't forget the butter,      Oh, and sour-cream, just in case.”*** It hasn't got *** appeal, What you see is true, But make no mistake, I swear by what's holy in taste, It only has eyes for you. Pharmaceutically, It soothes, Burns, itches, puffy eyes, Migraines and headaches. Make a stamp, Make silver shine, Clean your windows with its brine. And potatoe muffins are simply divine. When blight strikes, When crops don't thrive, Many starve, Many have died. So, I raise this toast To the lofty Tuber, And I dedicate this Ode, To the one, The only: ***Mr. Potatoe, This bud's for you.***
0
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 6:04 PM UTC
Potatode
O indiginous tuber to Peru, Now in nations' daily stews, From the Polar South to Timbuktu, Ranked with rice, wheat and maize, Oh staple potatoe You grace our table. We plant seed spuds, Red, yellow or brown, Harvest the new ones, The remainder mound To thrive in leisure, As buried treasure. Heel the spud ***** Unearth your trove, A gatherer's surprise To woo true love. We slice, dice and mash, Roast, deep-fry and bake. It's not an egg, It'll never break.      ***Medium-rare, please.      And make mine a baked.      Oh, and don't forget the butter,      Oh, and sour-cream, just in case.”*** It hasn't got *** appeal, What you see is true, But make no mistake, I swear by what's holy in taste, It only has eyes for you. Pharmaceutically, It soothes, Burns, itches, puffy eyes, Migraines and headaches. Make a stamp, Make silver shine, Clean your windows with its brine. And potatoe muffins are simply divine. When blight strikes, When crops don't thrive, Many starve, Many have died. So, I raise this toast To the lofty Tuber, And I dedicate this Ode, To the one, The only: ***Mr. Potatoe, This bud's for you.***
If an urn, why not a potatoe. A little known potatoe trait, labourers scheduled tater breaks.
#odes#potatoes
francie-lynch
Written by
francie-lynch
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 6:04 PM UTC
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