The Potato

I wrote this poem when I was a young teenager.  I pretended it was a plea to vegetarians.  But really it was just fun to personify a potato.

Like a small infant cradled in the ground,
In dark cool soil the potato is found!
Sleeping so peaceful in a land far away,
Nestled at the bottom of a hot summer's day.
A man's hands dig and push soft dirt aside,
He hungrily says, "How would you like to be fried!?"
Potato is scrubbed to his bare naked skin,
Then peeled, shaved and chopped so thin.
Poor potato is fried in a burning hot pan,
Then chewed and swallowed, into the man.

The Potato: Painting and Poem

This little potato I painted a while back and while he's not in my usual style, I've always felt there was something pretty special about him.  He even has a little poem of his own...

The Potato

Like a small infant cradled in the ground, In dark cool soil the potato is found! Sleeping so peaceful in a land far away, Nestled at the bottom of a hot summer's day.

A man's hands dig and push soft dirt aside, Then hungrily says, "How would you like to be fried!?" The potato is scrubbed to his bare naked skin, Then peeled, shaved, and chopped so thin.

Poor potato is fried in a burning hot pan, Then chewed up and swallowed, into the man.

Today I got him out of my files and put him in my kitchen!