Hail, tatws, or batatis,
Kartoffel, pomme de terre,
Potato, proud iam satis
Of kitchens everywhere!
Round, oval, pink-flushed, pearly,
Boiled, jacket, mashed, or roast,
Both maincrop and first early
Charm taste-buds coast to coast,
Why bother with snails’ bodies
Or frogs' legs aux fines herbes
When ‘deep-fried chips with cod’ is,
The French admit, superbe ?
Though sold dirt-cheap the dozen
And, strange to say, mere clone
You’re still, dread nightshade’s cousin,
Deservedly much grown.
So, gardeners, don’t blunder,
Plant lots of rows next March
In case you lack that wonder