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.