A poem about potatoes

The sun is a prom potato, baked in the embers of a campfire.
But if you want to bake the sun for real, an oven will do.
It’s the same old scene, since 1916…
The mahogany potato of justice simply wasn’t enough to prevent war.
Twas a nobel potato to be sure,
But a little condescending.
I feasted on justice potatoes that night.
Justice potatoes taste a lot like revenge potatoes.
I ate them all but still had far too many left.
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