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every March seventeenth, the glint froom
a perverted imp finds me achin'
and if aye dig deep enough,
this Goyish pseudo judo day yo criss chin

can figuratively unearth a puckish
   (gnome like) elfish sprite
   with a layer ring ga Erin
which byte size (key) ah man able troll
   help pan for treasure hunters

   plume bing the underworld
   with his (aye farm lee bull eve
   moost har male) sly grin
stirring thy faux set (head)
   feigned Irish with in
new mutter nada trace,

   (boot perhaps juiced an iota)
   o' Brogue kin
Celtic gene found
   within me genealogical tree,
   an itty bitty min
newt chromosomal thread,
   (which with assistance of Crispr)
   i.e., a more discerning Quaker can pin

point how this predominantly
   (decrepit ole coot)
   Semitic baby boomer tub hoot
(whale hugging
   ma gude look four leaf Shamrock)
   can locate long buried loot

according to legend
   (plus devout avid fervent
   Irish Aunt Fib B. Hen
   aka Sally Salamander Newt)
doth avail her excitement to help up root

(perhaps revisiting a previously dug oop ditch)
maybe treasure undetected
   cuz ova technical,
   and/or mechanical glitch

truth to the tantalizing myth
   whar hike can hitch
   my dreams to a morning star,
   that would make a par man rich
and put an end
   to mine fingers that hoo twitch

which i roan nick pie rite (of quartz)
   alluding to healthy appetite,
sans tea zing alluring
   (whet started as byte)
size nar invisible craving,
   which fantasy easily didst excite
(necessitating yars true lee) to don robe of foo fight
tar, yet persistent and nagging lust didst light
lore (akin to un hearth thing
   *** o' gold at rainbow's end),

   cuz hum ma penniless plight
   such dogged pursuit, a mirage,
   whereat aye drool in plain sight
thus conk clue ding this
   hip poe eponymous droning pome
   though, tis plenti mo' hie hood write!
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.

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