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The color of mud,
they live underground.
Only coming up
when they want to be found.

Oh, woe is me,
a mere farmer,
that I produce
a product as ugly as me.

It can't help its
oblong nature,
bland taste
or simple denature.

‘Tis but a spud
of different types,
colors, and shapes,
yet still manages to have a bud.

A simple starch,
that much is known,
but when added to things,
it brings in a life all its own.
Matthew Randell May 2015
Potatoes, potatoes! They grow in the ground,

When you dig them up they're muddy, brown and round,

Potatoes, potatoes! Delicious mashed,

But they don't taste so good if they've been bashed,

Potatoes, potatoes! Steamy in their jacket,

Potatoes, potatoes! Fresh in their packet,

Potatoes, potatoes! Can be made into chips,

Potatoes, potatoes! Are best when they're crisps!
A poem about my favourite tuber the potato. I wrote this near the begining of Junior school.

— The End —