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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.