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.
HAHAHAHA! *gasp* HAHAHAHA!
-falling on the floor-
*wheeze*
Brad rendered airless? Mission accomplished.
I want to be clear that I am not complaining about this job! I really do enjoy the silence, the peacefulness and -- above all- the delightful mindlessness of the task. (Oh, and the stabbing.
)
Maybe so:)
Lets play, “Name That Poem!” I’m gong with: Pomegranate Victory
(I’m not very good at this game)
Oh, that I was there!
I am wearing brown today in honor of the potatoes.
You are hilarious!!
Being an Elvis fan….I immediatley thought of “Clambake” changed to “Tater Bake”. Gonna have a tater bake…
I think you should get out your uke & turn your poem into a song!