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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s