Back door, slapped up shore,
rescue the red pandas to settle the score.
I peeled the potatoes and mashed them up well.
Time for dinner, folks. All is pleasant.
I am but a peasant, and the potato is mighty.
Worshiped like corn, except more hardy.
I'll eat a potato in fry form, pancakes, and as a chip.
I will drink wine or vodka, let it slip.
Most of my life shall be consumed
by potato loving people.
Gather near to me, one and all,
bless this potato feast.
I stepped away from the table,
walked through the door,
passed by the amiable sea lion
cuddled with pups on the floor.
I like that about my house…
as I edge the end of the world,
everything is so wild and unusual
that I cannot ask for more.
My foot touches the salty water
of the coast line.
I pick up the potatoes that have washed ashore.
That somehow god has bestowed to me a miracle
on this dead planet of rock and plastic,
a carbohydrate so luxurious
that radioactive material has not enhanced.
Clean and simple, has roots struggling to grow into dirt;
it is but a symbol of our devastated humanity.