In which it transpires that I ought not to attempt to write poetry concerning vegetables on a mere three hours of sleep. This is the sort of thing that happens:
To Potatoes
Praise the potato
Most excellent vegetable
humble though it be.
Eat them for breakfast
With tomato and sausage,
Scrambled eggs and tea.
Have them for luncheon
With haddock and vinegar
Add a Guinness too.
Boil them, mash them,
Quarter, roast or pan-fry them,
Put them in a stew.
With salt and pepper
And liberally topped with cheese
- Noble fare this be!
- Noble fare this be!
Versatile tuber,
O, most tasty vegetable,
I sing praise to thee!
Yep. There you have it, a rhyming, multi-verse haiku on the glories of the potato. Never it let it be said that I am incapable of lighter themes. You want to know the sad part? I am so tired, I sat there sniggering like an idiot whilst composing those immortal lines. I believe I must retire early. Good night.
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