Small Potatoes Poem by Terence Winch
Small Potatoes
We went out to eat.
It was like walking on eggs.
The waiter spilled the beans
and then we ordered.
I had the sour grapes
with the spilt milk,
which made you cry.
You wanted tough
muffins. How do you
like them apples?
the waiter asked.
He was the apple
of our eye. But every
thing in the end seemed
like small potatoes.
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4/23/2024 2:01:41 AM # 1.0.0.1119
