To thee my friend, my spud
Born of dirt and mud
Whether mashed or fried,
Au gratin or pied
My joy, alas, I can’t hide.
***
On platter or trough
Elegant or naught
You’re gracious and always fulfilling.
And there’s never a night
When hunger is right
That your eyes don’t find us all willing.
***
Nay, you’re a tuber, not a root
Nor a veggie, or fruit
And with ketchup, you are quite the marvel
At circus and fairs
In airplanes, on stairs
Without you, I fear we would starve all.
About the Creator
Joe Luca
Writing is meant to be shared, so if you have a moment come visit, open a page and begin. Let me know what you like, what makes you laugh, what made you cry - just a little. And when you're done, tell a friend. Thanks and have a great day.
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