A Sonnet on Potatoes (or at least, an effort)

O dark eyed valiant, blessed child of earth

Thee cannot fathom my deepest joy

For vain it is to explain my mirth

Thy fruit be heaven, one wishes to die.

Potato! Sire, I bow down to thee

Thy tempt a fellow canst naught evade

Succulent, fulsome thy savour be

Once on my tongue, it shall not fade.

Thee descend the Andes in silent gait,

Taking naïve world by so wild a storm

Souls of taste buds beseech and wait

For thy candour pure to suavely form.

O Caucasian, bestow naught, thy Native with a frown

Thy coveted mashed potato is also a brown.



March 2013


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