Lord of the Fries (poem 45)
The Lord of the Fries
is not like those other guys.
He was born and raised underground
— in the dirt his family was found.
What about the other potatoes?
Walking down other paths, they goes.
Some get baked and plopped with sour cream,
releasing clouds of hot steam.
Some get plunked in a pot to boil,
then tossed with garlic and olive oil.
Some get mashed so smooth,
you can whip up hills and grooves.
But the Lord of the Fries?
He’s not like those other guys.
He’s sliced in strips and fried Frenched.
In a storm of ketchup he’ll be drenched.
Golden, crispy, tickled with salt.
Show me a box, and I will assault.
Oh so yummy and delicous!
(Though not very nutricious.)
Still, when spuds are your buds,
you’ve got a lot of love.