Lovely cumulus clouds they bring to mind,
a soft scoop looks just like the glowing moon,
or drift of winter snow that's bright and fine;
what magical, wonderful comfort food!
I never met a spud I didn't love,
it seems that I have been this way since birth,
baked, curly fried, garlicky, crinkle cut;
can't think of any vege with more worth
Still I ponder who was the first masher...
could tuber have been rude, offending him?
was she p.o.'d at potato? ask her;
the likelihood we'll ever know is slim
But I tell you my fat cells feel grateful
finding mashed potatoes on the table.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
i like your love for potatoes