Twas the eve of Potato Bake,
And in the church kitchen,
I was washing the taters,
and not even gritchin’.
You see, this yearly task –
Washing dirt off the veggies –
Is quiet and peaceful
And no one gives wedgies.
Alone with the water,
alone with the taters,
alone with the hum
of two ‘frigerators.
It just takes an hour
for two hundred forty
then wrap ’em in foil.
They look nice and sporty.
But – before you enrobe them
in bright, shiny jackets,
Stab them and stab them
and stab them and stab them
and stab them and stab them
and stab them and stab them.
I might need some counseling.
Packets.