Potato

Before we plunge into ‘Potato’, a note on how one should approach it, because you’ll bugger it up otherwise…

People nowadays don’t know how to read poetry. More to the point, nobody knows how to read MY poetry, which is why I often have to do it myself. But I can’t be there all the time, which is why I’ve taken time out of my busy poetry-writing schedule to tell you how to read it properly. Please note that if you skip this advice and read Potato without adequate preparation, then I will know. Don’t ask me how.

I just will.

And I will find you.

So! Much like Shakespeare’s ‘stuff’, my poetry is not to be read quietly in the corner of some dusty library. I’d sooner you stabbed yourself repeatedly in the eyes with a fork than did that. Instead, I urge you to stand up, wherever you may be. Stand up, you cretin! Stand and splay your legs wide, suck in a great gusty breath and fill the mighty bellows of yon chesticles, and bray my poetry as urgently and sensually as when it was first conceived!

(NB. For our younger readers, some of the letters in the ruder words have been starred out. Personally I feel this is ******** ***** ***** censorship, but the Editor insists. Fascist.)

Potato.

Potato!
Po – Ta – To!
A word that rhymes with fellatio*
But universally speaking, lips get to grips
With saucy CHIPS
More than with p*nis.
Potatoes are very popular.
Fellatio – not as much.
OH! Jealous p*nis, do not fight the tumescent tuber! You will not win!
The potato is a deadly foe! The p*nis wears a hoody,
But the potato wears a badass jacket.

Oh potato! How often we embrace!
A coupling often borne of lager and shame,
And yet in the morning I remember your name.
It is Edward.
A royal Edward. A fried-in-fat aristocrat.
A napkin wipes away the residue,
But these damned fries leave their lecherous mark
Upon my thighs.
The girth of the working-class arse is the mark of the potato.

Oh! Potato!
I say potato, you say…
Nothing. Because you’re just a potato.

*almost rhymes with fellatio, anyway

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