Pseudo gigantic potato, what have you brought for me this evening?
Is it a sip of wine?
Cold broccoli?
Or a crocodile with teeth of gold.
Oh fake potato, you give to me so much
and most that is free.
What you do not see is my smile.
A potato may have eyes, but you are covered in
dirt and roots.
Oh faulty potato, what is in me that you feel?
Is it my lungs with your tentacle roots
protruding and pulsing,
tingle my medulla, sniff my ears,
make me come to completion.
Oh potato, you are nearly not so fake
when my feelings for you exist in reality.
I am your human wife...
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